/ '- 


SOMETHING  ELSE 


She  was  standing  by  the  blue -and -gold  vase,  ,  .  .  her 
eyes  bright  with  the  sparkle  of  the  outside  world,  as  if 
she  had  brought  its  frosty  brilliance  into  the  sombre 
studio  [Chapter  VIlJ 


SOMETHING  ELSE 

A   Novel 


BY 


J.  Breckenridge  Ellis 

Author  of    "The  Dread  and  Fear  of  Kings,' 
"The  Holland  Wolves,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  ERNEST  L.  BLUMENSCHEIN 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO, 
1911 


COPYRIGHT 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1911 


Published    September,  1911 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


PHESS    OF    THE    VAIL    COMPANY 
COSHOCTON,    U.    S.    A. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  MYSTERY  OF  IRVING  PAYNE     .      .      .11 

II  A   LODGING-HOUSE   DREAM          .         .         .        25 

III  THE  JESSIE  ROMANCE         ....      41 

IV  RICH  — FOR  ONE  HOUR    ....      62 

V      A  NIGHT  OF  LOVE 76 

VI  THE  MORNING  AFTER        .      .      .      .85 

VII  STRANGE  MEETING  IN.  THE  STUDIO       .    103 

VIII  THE  ITALIAN  SPY  .      .      .      .      .      .119 

IX  THE  TRIP  WITH  WINIFRED       .      .      .135 

X  THE  LITTLE  NEIGHBOR      .      .     ,.      .153 

XI      BUILDERS 165 

XII  THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  POOR     .      .    175 

XIII  IRVING  PLOTS  STRATEGY     ....    196 

XIV  IRVING'S  ADVENTURE  WITH  His  SOUL  .   £10 

XV  THE  JERRY  ROMANCE         ....    224 

XVI,      TRAMPS  AND  KISSES 240 

XVII  THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  RICH      .      .    264 

XVIII  THE  RACE  AGAINST  DEATH      .      .      .   284 

XIX      A  TORN  BANK  CHECK 297 

XX      GERRYMANDERING 307 

XXI  IRVING  MAKES  His  DECISION    .      .      .   320 

XXII  THE  MYSTERY  is  REVIVED  ....    335 

XXIII  THE  WIFE   .                                            .   350 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV      THE  AMBUSCADE 366 

XXV  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  COAL  BARGES    .    391 

XXVI  THE  FATHER     .....      V      .    410 

XXVII      THE  MOTHER 421 

XXVIII  IRVING  ANP  WINIFRED                            .    433 


SOMETHING    ELSE 

CHAPTER  I 

MYSTERY   OF   IRVING   PAYNE 

WITH  the  roar  of  the  city  all  about 
him,  Irving  Payne  heard  nothing.  Five 
distinct  lines  of  vehicles  moved  in  paral- 
lels of  contrary  motion  between  the  western  limits  of 
City  Hall  Park  and  the  massive  buildings  across  Broad- 
way. This  unpremeditated  unity  of  scenic  effect  was 
broken  by  ceaseless  cabs,  hansoms,  runabouts,  and  pe- 
destrians, as  they  penetrated  the  lines  of  progress  and 
overflowed  the  waste  places ;  but  Irving  Payne  saw  only 
the  open  letter  in  his  hand.  Perhaps  he  did  not  see 
even  the  letter,  though  his  eyes  appeared  intent  upon 
the  cramped  feminine  handwriting.  He  had  read  the 
words  so  many  times  that  he  knew  them  by  heart;  he 
was  thinking,  now,  rather  of  their  consequences  than  of 
their  message: 

"  If  you  care  to  learn  anything  regarding  your  par- 
entage,"—  so  the  letter  ran, — "  it  will  give  me  pleasure 
to  enlighten  you  at  any  time.  I  am,  I  imagine,  the 
only  person  living  who  knew  both  your  father  and  your 
mother." 


Something  Else 

The  signature  read,  "  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse."  The  ad- 
dress was;  one  -of.  -those  "places,"  in  old  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage, where  the  '  tartgled  •'  streets,  despairing  of  ever 
being  straightened  out,  give  it  up,  and  come  to  a  stop. 

The  mind  of  the  young  man  was  not  unlike  one  of 
those  unambitious  thoroughfares.  It  had,  as  it  were, 
come  to  a  stop,  but  without  having  reached  a  place  of 
repose.  To  be  twenty-one,  and  never  to  have  had  the 
slightest  idea  what  one's  father  or  mother  was,  or  is; 
then,  suddenly  to  be  offered  the  information  "  at  any 
time," —  that  was  the  case  of  Irving  Payne. 

He  was  not  sure  that  he  cared  to  know,  at  this  late 
day.  In  truth,  he  dreaded  the  revelation.  Of  course, 
he  had  had  his  long  period  of  craving  for  knowledge,  but 
that  was  in  his  boyhood.  Even  at  that  time  he  felt 
sure  that  his  craving  could  never  be  satisfied,  and  this 
conviction  had  done  much  to  reconcile  him  to  lifelong 
mystery.  Thus  far  he  had  lived  without  the  love  or 
the  aid  of  those  who  owed  him  both  affection  and  pro- 
tection. If  they  were  living,  he  would  rather  not  meet 
them  now;  if  they  were  dead  —  well,  had  they  not  al- 
ways been  dead  to  him? 

On  the  other  hand,  Irving  did  not  underestimate  the 
importance  of  the  fact  that  some  one  possessed  the 
knowledge  that  had  always  been  withheld  from  him. 
This  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  of  whom  he  had  never  heard 
until  the  receipt  of  her  letter  —  she,  it  appeared,  held 
the  key  to  the  mystery.  In  a  way,  it  seemed  to  put  him 
in  the  power  of  an  absolute  stranger.  As  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  fence  near  the  Nathan  Hale  monu- 

[12] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

ment  his  attitude  did  not  speak  of  irresolution,  but  of 
uneasiness.  If  such  an  emotion  be  left  in  the  wreck- 
heap  of  the  old  psychology,  Irving  felt  something  like 
a  faint  presentiment  of  evil.  Of  course  he  must  go  to 
this  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse;  but  he  would  put  off  the  inter- 
view as  long  as  possible. 

At  last,  as  if  roused  from  profound  slumber,  Irving 
started,  thrust  the  letter  impatiently  into  his  pocket, 
and  mechanically  looked  up  at  the  bronze  statue,  which 
seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  ready  to  meet  my  fate,  are  you  ?  " 

The  gravity  deepened  on  the  young  man's  finely- 
moulded  features.  He  stared  beyond  the  leafless  trees 
toward  the  imposing  buildings  that  cut  the  skyline  to 
the  entrance  of  Brooklyn  Bridge.  Nearer  at  hand,  the 
City  Hall  extended  its  marble  wings,  as  if  to  catch  the 
winter  sunlight  in  all  its  bright  promise.  The  compan- 
ion marble  of  the  Court  House  received,  also,  that 
promise  of  warmth  and  invigorating  life,  which  it  would 
take  months  to  redeem.  Turning  his  glance  toward 
Broadway,  Irving  instinctively  drew  himself  up,  as  if 
girding  the  loins  of  his  spirit  for  the  fray.  The  roar, 
which  had  been  smothered  to  a  distant  hum  under  the 
burden  of  his  subconsciousness,  suddenly  penetrated  to 
his  senses,  causing  his  blood  to  tingle. 

He  felt  himself  called  out  into  that  current  of  man- 
ifold activity.  The  heavy  grinding  of  overladen 
trucks,  the  discords  of  laboriously  drawn  drays,  the 
lighter  dash  of  hacks  and  carriages,  the  beat  of  an 
army's  footsteps,  the  harsh  blasts  from  automobiles,  the 
clashing  of  innumerable  voices,  as  they  called,  whistled, 

[13] 


Something  Else 

commanded,  cursed,  and  jested, —  all  appealed  to  Irving 
Payne.  He  delighted  in  the  badinage  that  descended 
from  dizzy  seats  above  pyramids  of  moving  boxes  and 
barrels ;  in  the  whining  of  the  pushcart  vendors ;  in  the 
odors  of  fruits  and  flowers,  as  they  were  wafted  from 
the  sidewalk-stands.  His  heart  responded  with  that 
buoyant  joyousness  which  formed  the  dominant  tone  in 
his  character.  His  attention  was  centred  upon  no  par- 
ticular phase  of  the  tumultuous  street.  It  was  life 
that  appealed  to  him  —  all  manifestations  of  it,  all 
agents.  The  goal  was  nothing,  as  yet;  scarcely  the  di- 
rection mattered;  the  movement  was  all. 

Irving  felt  an  instinctive  desire  to  lose  himself  in  the 
eager  tide,  to  let  himself  be  borne  unresistingly  past  the 
postoffice  toward  old  Trinity,  or  beyond  Park  Row 
toward  the  upper  city  —  what  matter?  His  place  in 
the  city-scheme  was  definitely  fixed.  On  the  morrow  he 
was  to  enter  upon  his  labors  as  clerk  in  a  downtown 
railroad  office.  He  had  nothing  to  do  until  to-morrow, 
except  to  find  a  cheap  lodging-house.  It  was  the  serious 
face  of  Nathan  Hale  that  reminded  him  once  more  of 
that  mysterious  letter,  and  of  the  unknown  Mrs.  Sadie 
Wyse. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  speaking  aloud  to  the  statue,  in 
answer  to  the  expression  of  the  bronze  face,  "  it 's  easy 
enough  to  be  a  hero,  in  the  time  of  revolution !  " 

A  voice  spoke  at  his  ear :  "  The  time  of  revolution  is 
now." 

Irving  turned  without  displeasure.  The  intrusion  of 
[14] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

a  stranger  was  just  punishment  for  his  folly  of  speak- 
ing aloud. 

The  man  who  had  accosted  him  was  a  singular  fellow, 
dressed  decently  enough,  and  fairly  respectable  as  to 
hair  and  beard,  yet  producing  the  impression  of  one  who 
has  been,  as  it  were,  caught  up  and  cleaned  and  clothed 
for  an  especial  occasion. 

This  man  of  middle-age,  finding  he  had  Irving's  atten- 
tion, pursed  his  lips,  between  which  an  excellent  cigar 
was  held  unlighted,  and  added,  impressively,  "  Sir,  this 
is,  I  repeat,  the  time  of  revolution."  He  waved  his 
arm  like  an  orator.  But,  as  if  he  found  it  tiresome  to 
maintain  so  lofty  an  attitude,  he  immediately  cast  to  the 
winds  his  air  of  prophet,  and  said,  genially,  "  I  am  glad 
to  meet  you  once  more,  my  friend." 

"  Once  more  ?  "  echoed  Irving,  vaguely,  as  he  fixed 
upon  him  that  cold  look  of  suspicion  born  of  many  deal- 
ings with  one's  kind.  "  Then  we  have  met  before  the 
revolution  ?  " 

There  was  upon  the  man's  large  and  rather  red  face 
a  look  of  lazy  good-nature,  mingled,  as  it  appeared,  with 
something  like  instinctive  liking,  which  Irving  found 
by  no  means  unpleasant.  From  his  whole  person  em- 
anated an  atmosphere  of  worldly  content,  difficult  to 
describe,  but  immediately  perceptible  —  a  humanness, 
let  us  say,  as  if  higher  spiritual  qualities,  once  pos- 
sessed, had  not  failed  to  mellow  and  sweeten  what,  in 
a  lower  order  of  man,  would  have  been  mere  baseness. 

"  About  a  week  ago,"  said  the  man,  confidentially,  but 
[15] 


Something  Else 

without  offence  in  his  intimacy,  "  you  were  over  at 
Tompkins  Square.  So  was  I.  Do  you  remember  that 
particular  disreputable  individual  who  sold  you  some 
lead  pencils?  Well,  I  am  that  man." 

Irving  laughed.  "  These  clothes  have  made  you  a 
new  creature !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sort  of  camarad- 
erie that  astonished  himself.  Could  this  man  really 
have  been  evolved  from  the  tramp  whose  miserable  rags 
had  prompted  a  purchase  of  undesired  pencils?  That 
tramp  had  interested  him  as  an  example  of  the  law  of 
degeneracy.  The  present  form  was  not  sufficiently  re- 
mote from  its  chrysalis  state,  to  have  lost  all  semblance 
of  the  grub.  But  this  remarkable  cleanness  of  person 
and  carefulness  of  attire  suggested  a  future  in  which 
wings  might  unfold  —  a  future  in  which  cleanliness 
would  not  be  remarkable,  and  clothes  would  not  fit  so 
ill. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  man,  with  pensive  gravity,  "  I  am  not 
a  new  creature,  but  a  very  old  one,  to-day  : —  older  than 
the  tramp  you  saw  at  Tompkins  Square.  I  am  a  sort 
of  second  folio;  the  original  edition  is  lost,  I  assure 
you."  He  gave  a  short  laugh,  half  bitter,  half  careless. 
A  shadow  passed  over  the  light  of  his  habitual  satis- 
faction, and,  as  if  to  conceal  the  seriousness  evoked  by 
far-distant  images  of  his  youth,  he  turned  away  to 
light  the  cigar,  saying,  banteringly,  "  As  my  old  enemy 
Horace  used  to  observe,  "  Lenit  albescens  animos  capil- 
lus:  " 

A  voice  interposed  sharply :  "  You  no  lighta  dat 
cigarro !  "  A  dark,  round-faced  lounger,  who  had  been 

[16] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

watching  from  the  corner  of  the  bare  grassplot,  came 
forward  excitedly.  His  sparkling  black  eyes  narrowed 
to  menacing  slits,  exactly  midway  between  the  brim  of 
his  derby  and  the  straight,  thin  extension  of  his  mus- 
tache. 

The  match,  whose  tiny  flame  had  been  dangerously 
near  the  end  of  the  cigar,  fell  upon  the  sidewalk.  The 
middle-aged  man  winked  ruefully  at  Irving. 

"  I  getta  de  clo'es  for  you,"  the  Italian  continued, 
indignantly.  "  I  standa  good  for  dem.  I  lenda  de  fine 
cigarro,  de  twenty-five-cent  cigarro,  so  you  be  de 
manna,  so  you  looka  de  high,  de  gran',  de  Fo'  Hundred, 
de  toppa-notcha.  An'  den  you  lighta  dat  cigarro;  yet 
it  is  not  yo'  cigarro,  it  is  mine-a,  it  is  in  de  stock." 

"  Well,  well,  Agostino,"  said  the  other,  impa- 
tiently, "  I  forgot  the  cigar  was  only  borrowed.  You 
see,"  he  added,  grinning  at  Irving,  "  I  'm  to  be  Queen  of 
the  May  only  for  a  few  hours.  Every  penny  I  could 
realize  from  the  lowly,  but  unconfining,  business  of  pen- 
cil selling,  has  gone  to  rent  this  air  of  gentility.  My 
good  friend,  Agostino,  has  pledged  the  Jew  to  keep  me 
in  sight  till  the  suit  is  safe,  once  more,  in  Hester  Street. 
The  cigar,  you  understand,  is  still  on  the  market.  You 
will  keep  me  in  sight,  Agostino,  will  you  not?  " 

"  You  mighta  right,"  said  Agostino,  showing  no 
sense  of  humor. 

Irving  Payne,  true  to  his  characteristic  of  taking 
keen  interest  in  all  persons  or  scenes  that  touched  his 
life,  regarded  the  Italian's  sinister  face  with  artistic 
satisfaction,  at  the  same  time  moving  to  the  other  side 

[17] 


Something  Else 

of  the  slightly  gray  mendicant,  to  insure  his  pockets. 
For  the  less  Irving  had  in  his  pockets,  the  more  care- 
fully he  guarded  them. 

"  Have  you  invested  your  earnings,"  Irving  inquired, 
cheerfully,  "  in  order  to  make  an  impression  upon  the 
park-sparrows  ?  " 

The  other  gave  Irving  a  curious  look.  "  Are  you  at 
leisure  ?  "  he  inquired,  losing  a  good  deal  of  his  lazy 
drawl.  "  Will  you  let  me  show  you  the  sequel  to  a 
strange  history  in  my  past  ?  You  '11  not  have  far  to 
go  —  just  to  the  Court  House.  Of  course,  you  have 
heard  of  Mrs.  J.  S.  Vandever  —  the  Fifth  Avenue  lady 
who  spends  such  quantities  of  her  husband's  money  on 
pink  teas,  and  on  charities  of  a  darker  color?  " 

Of  course,  everybody  had  heard  of  the  Vandevers. 
But  it  puzzled  the  young  man  to  hear  the  name  on  the 
lips  of  this  derelict  of  society. 

"  Very  good.  J.  S.  Vandever  is  her  second  husband, 
you  understand,"  remarked  the  man,  casually.  "  I  was 
the  first." 

Irving  stared.  If  the  other  was  ever  in  earnest,  he 
was  now.  After  all,  there  were  in  this  drifted  wreck  un- 
mistakable remains  of  culture,  even  of  grace.  His 
language  was  that  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  devastations 
of  many  a  drinking-bout  had  left  dulled,  but  not  ex- 
tinguished, the  sparks  of  humor  and  good  sense. 

"  She  divorced  me  twenty-odd  years  ago,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  humorous  look  toward  Agostino,  perhaps 
fearing  that  the  Italian  would  again  assert  his  lordship 
by  some  preposterous  act  of  tyranny.  "  I  did  n't  make 

[18] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

any  fight.  Don't  you  think  she  ought  to  appreciate 
that?  And  to-day  —  yes,  in  an  hour  —  I  shall  sue  for 
divorce  from  this  same  lady,  who  has  for  years  been 
Mrs.  Vandever.  She  ought  to  do  as  she  was  done  by, 
eh?  But  this  is  not  a  do-as-done-by  world,"  he  added, 
shaking  his  head,  "  so  I  'm  afraid  she  '11  oppose."  His 
look  grew  serious.  "  Yet  she  has  had  her  revenge. 
What  more  does  she  want?  " 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  divorce  suit,"  observed 
Irving,  who  might  have  thought  the  other  jesting,  but 
for  the  final  words.  "  Why  divorce  her?  Are  n't  you 
two  sufficiently  separated,  without  a  legal  barricade? 
J.  S.  Vendever  ought  to  be  fence  enough  between  you !  " 

"  Oh,  there  's  a  reason,"  returned  the  man,  carelessly. 
"Would  you  like  to  see  it  through?  Time  for  me  to 
stretch  my  legs." 

"  Come  on,"  Agostino  called.  "  I  have  put  fine  pant' 
on  dose  leg' — you  getta  dat  divorce  alia  right,  sure, 
O.  K." 

"  I  '11  come,  too,"  said  Irving,  not  surprised  at  his 
interest  in  the  case,  since  everything  smacking  of  life 
interested  him,  but  wondering  that  his  attention  should 
be  so  absorbingly  engaged.  Here  was  an  opportunity 
to  banish  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse  from  his  mind  by  supplying 
it  with  vivid  impressions.  Still,  this  disreputable 
stranger,  this  waif  who  offered  no  resistance  to  the  in- 
sults of  a  sinister  Italian  —  what  was  his  power  by 
virtue  of  which  he  had  won  from  Irving  not  only  inter- 
est, but  a  feeling  of  liking? 

As  they  rounded  the  City  Hall,  Irving  spoke,  in  order 
[19] 


Something  Else 

to  rouse  his  companion  from  a  fit  of  abstraction.  "  You 
referred  to  a  revolution." 

The  man  shook  himself,  and  the  shadow  fled  from  his 
face.  "  You  mistake ;  I  said  the  revolution.  Look  at 
this  beautiful  building.  The  architect  who  fashioned 
that  marble  pile  from  his  brain-figments,  was  paid  six 
dollars  a  day.  Mark  it  well:  six  dollars.  And  what 
are  six  dollars?  A  night  on  Coney  Island,  a  supper  at 
the  Plaza  —  are  these  things  worth  a  day  of  one's  life  ? 
Now  we  approach  our  Court  House ;  you  see  ?  —  a  ten- 
million-dollar  monument  of  graft,  for  the  sittings  of 
justice.  The  City  Hall  is  honest,  but  it  was  built  a 
century  ago.  Who  is  honest  nowadays?  Therefore 
—  the  revolution." 

Agostino  had  paused  at  the  basement  corner  of  the 
City  Hall.  Above  his  head  the  marble  gleamed;  but 
about  him  was  the  dark-hued  background  of  the  lower 
wall.  From  under  the  shabby  derby,  sparkled  the 
brigand  eyes;  below  was  the  thin  mustache,  extended, 
at  either  end,  to  a  single  hair.  There  was  an  effect 
of  boyishness  in  the  rounded  chin ;  the  olive  cheeks  were 
plump ;  but  the  thin  lips  were  crafty. 

Irving's  companion  touched  him  upon  the  arm. 
"  You  ought  to  hear  me  at  Union  Square,"  he  re- 
marked, with  a  grimace.  "  I  win  great  applause. 
But  I  am  more  eloquent  when  shabbily  dressed.  Rags 
have  entree  to  the  heart,  when  starched  linen  is  kept  in 
the  antechamber.  I  'm  too  fine,  now,  to  make  anybody 
howl.  Between  you  and  me,  I  'm  an  agitator." 

Irving  jerked  his  thumb  backward  toward  Agostino, 
[20] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

saying,  "  Yonder,  I  suppose,  is  a  future  captain  of 
jour  revolution." 

Another  grimace.  "  When  he  is,  let  us  be  colonels ! 
But  of  course  I  am  in  earnest,  young  man.  At  least 
—  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  7  am  in  earnest,  but  the 
cause  is  an  earnest  one.  I  am  in  earnest  about  nothing, 
nothing  in  all  the  universe,  except  —  Come !  my 
divorce ! " 

They  found  the  court  room  filled  with  well-dressed 
men  and  women.  There  were  some  two  hundred  di- 
vorce cases  on  the  court  calendar.  No  one  had  come 
to  defend  a  suit,  but  many  against  whom  suits  had  been 
brought  had  come  to  hear  what  the  plaintiffs  would 
say  about  them. 

"  What  an  abnormal  curiosity,"  whispered  Irving's 
companion,  as  they  found  their  seats.  "  As  if  they 
did  not  know  how  bad  they  were,  they  've  come  to  hear 
themselves  abused."  Suddenly  he  plucked  the  young 
man's  sleeve.  "  Ah,  there  she  is ! "  was  the  somewhat 
agitated  whisper. 

Irving's  attention  was  directed  toward  two  women, 
apparently  of  refinement  and  social  importance,  who 
sat  apart  from  other  onlookers.  They  were  strikingly 
unlike,  yet  some  indefinable  touch  marked  them  as 
dwellers  in  a  common  sphere.  One  had  a  heavy  jaw,  a 
challenging  eye,  and  an  unsympathetic  mouth,  suggest- 
ing one  who  makes  a  hobby  of  sports,  particularly  of 
racing.  The  other  showed  a  marked  irregularity  of 
features, —  depressions  before  the  lower  outline  of  the 
face  was  reached,  a  sinking-in  between  underlip  and 

[21] 


Something  Else 

chin,  a  broad  dimple  in  the  chin,  an  undulation  caused 
by  the  temples  rising  in  slight  curves  from  the  black 
eyebrows,  and  below  all,  sloping  waves  of  satin  skin 
for  the  contour  of  the  neck.  The  eyebrows  were  un- 
usually heavy.  Large,  soft,  black  eyes  looked  forth 
with  haunting  melancholy,  seeming  to  shed  a  tender 
glow  of  womanliness  over  each  little  hollow  of  cheek, 
chin,  neck,  and  mouth.  It  was  one  of  those  faces 
that  seem  to  speak ;  that  sometimes  speak  most  elo- 
quently when  lips  are  mute.  Those  lips  were  full,  and 
curved  with  exquisite  grace ;  they  borrowed,  from  a 
certain  habitual  tilting  back  of  the  head,  an  added  ef- 
fect of  sensitiveness. 

Irving  whispered,  "  Which  was  your  wife :  the  lady 
off  horseback,  or  the  other? " 

The  response  was  faintly  given :     "  The  other." 

Irving's  companion  had  evidently  surrendered  himself 
to  memories  of  the  past.  His  accustomed  indifference 
to  all  save  ease  of  living  was  gone.  No  doubt,  the 
sight  of  her  who  had  once  been  his  wife  caused  him  to 
think  of  what  he  himself  had  been. 

The  reply  surprised  Irving.  He  would  much  rather 
it  had  been  she  of  the  insolent  gaze  and  square  jaw. 

The  eyes  of  the  speaking  face  —  luminous  orbs  of 
Mrs.  Vandever  were  suddenly  intent  upon  the  man  at 
Irving's  side.  The  coming  of  the  lawyer  had  doubt- 
less signalled  him  out.  Could  she  have  known  him  in 
that  promiscuous  audience,  him  who  sat  with  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  with  roughened"  hands  slightly  twitching,  with 

[22] 


Mystery  of  Irving  Payne 

shoulders  bent  forward?  Some  twenty  years  ago,  had 
he  not  met  her  gaze  with  eyes  clear  and  unafraid?  At 
that  time  he  was  her  husband. 

Was  it  curiosity,  only,  that  had  brought  her  to  the 
court  room  to  see  the  partner  of  her  girlhood's  dance  of 
dreams?  Or  did  she,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
long  been  the  wife  of  another,  still  cherish,  in  the  hid- 
den chambers  of  her  illusions,  a  picture  of  this  man, 
like  the  retouched  outlines  of  a  fading  photograph? 
Irving  watched  her  intently ;  but  though  she  looked 
steadily  over  intervening  benches  with  up-tilted  chin, 
and  downward  gaze,  he  could  not  interpret  the  language 
of  that  vivid  face.  It  seemed  not  so  much  to  be  speak- 
ing in  an  unknown  tongue,  as  to  be  speaking  of  an  un- 
known life  —  a  life  far  beyond  the  shallows  in  which 
Irving  Payne  had  thus  far  sought  sunbeams  of 
momentary  happiness. 

The  lawyer  touched  the  arm  of  the  slightly  gray 
plaintiff.  At  the  same  time,  Mrs.  Vandever  and  her 
companion  rose  to  depart. 

"  We  cannot  reach  your  case,  to-day,"  the  lawyer 
said.  "  However,  it  won't  be  opposed."  He  returned 
to  his  table. 

"  So  ends  your  chapter,"  Irving  whispered,  looking 
at  his  bowed  companion,  curiously.  "  Well,  I  must 
go  forth  to  open  one  in  my  own  life.  Coming?  " 

"  I  '11  wait  till  she  's  gone,"  said  the  other  with  a  lit- 
tle shudder. 

Irving  descended  the  broad  sweep  of  steps  in  time 
[23] 


Something  Else 

to  see  Mrs.  Vandever  and  her  friend  whirled,  in  a 
white  and  gilt  electric  brougham,  out  of  Chambers 
Street  into  Broadway. 

Across  the  street,  Agostino  was  unobtrusively  visible, 
leaning  against  a  corner  of  the  City  Hall,  the  ends  of 
his  sackcoat  thrust  upward  by  the  insertion  of  each 
thumb  in  a  trousers  pocket.  The  Italian  gave  Irving 
a  cursory  glance,  then  fastened  his  beady  eyes  upon 
the  ground,  with  an  air  of  amiable  humility. 


[24] 


CHAPTER  II 

A   LODGING-HOUSE   DREAM 

AFTER  leaving  the  Court  House,  Irving  Payne 
boarded  a  Broadway  car,  bound  north.  Dis- 
regarding the  objections  of  the  rear-end 
clingers  to  the  accretion  of  another  atom,  the  young 
man  calmly  squeezed  himself  between  some  "  matinee 
girls,"  in  a  warm  juxtaposition  that  seemed  to  call 
for  the  music  of  an  East  Side  dancing-club.  With  a 
good-humor  thoroughly  American,  and  a  disregard  for 
the  comfort  of  others  typically  Manhattanese,  he  looked 
up  Broadway's  swarming  canyon.  Along  the  margins 
of  the  cliffs  —  that  is  to  say,  the  roofs  of  the  sky- 
scrapers —  he  was  seeking  the  office  in  which,  on  the 
morrow,  his  duties  as  railroad  day-clerk,  were  to  be- 
gin. When,  at  last,  he  saw  its  rounded  tower  and 
fluttering  flag  above  the  enormous  wholesale  houses, 
there  came  to  him  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  Those  gilded 
signs  were  guarantees  of  his  kinship  with  the  tense, 
eager  faces  that  forever  drifted  up  and  down  the  side- 
walks. He  had  become  one  of  them. 

He  felt  the  eagerness  they  manifested.  They  must 
hurry,  hurry  —  or  be  left  behind ;  and  so  must  he.  Of 
the  city's  four  millions  how  many  thousands  were  al- 
ready left  behind  so  far  that,  for  them,  the  path  was 


Something  Else 

lost  that  leads  out  of  the  wilderness  of  failure?  He 
remembered  the  wreck  he  had  encountered  at  City  Hall 
Park  —  the  mendicant  who,  in  borrowed  clothes,  had 
been  intent  upon  divorce  from  a  lady  now  the  wife  of  a 
distinguished  man  of  affairs.  Had  that  first  husband 
of  Mrs.  Vandever  once  hurried  like  these  thousands 
whose  rhythmic  footbeats  sounded  above  the  crash  of 
traffic?  Had  his  face  worn  as  did  these,  a  look  of 
burning  impatience  to  reach  some  destination  coupled 
with  a  blank  oblivion  of  those  touching  him  upon  the 
way  ?  But,  no  —  surely  Agostino's  debtor  had  never 
taken  an  active  part  in  the  city's  life.  Surely  he  had 
never  really  lived. 

But  every  fibre  of  Irving  Payne  was  alive  and  tingling. 
Even  when  tightly  wedged  between  the  high  school  girls 
whose  handkerchiefs  were  damp  from  their  hero's  sor- 
rows —  sorrows  mellowed  by  f ootlight-glamour  and 
orchestral  sighs  —  Irving  held  his  form  bent  forward, 
ready  to  leap  at  the  first  possible  second.  He  hurled 
himself  into  space  at  West  Fourth  Street,  and  was  al- 
most at  the  northern  corner  before  he  had  checked  the 
impetus  given  his  body,  as  a  last  indignity,  by  the 
jammed  street-car. 

His  quest  of  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse  stopped  him  before 
an  old-fashioned  brownstone  front,  which  bore  the 
legend,  "  Gotham  Repose."  Irving  was  pleasantly  sur- 
prised. The  address  Mrs.  Wyse  had  given  him  was 
that  of  a  lodging-house ;  one  of  those  shabbily  re- 
spectable retreats  near  Washington  Square,  promising 
reasonable  rates  with  accommodations  apologetically 

[26] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

meagre.  Gotham  Repose  with  its  high  stoop,  and  its 
stone  steps  whose  edges  showed  the  dents  of  Time's 
never-aging  teeth,  seemed  to  have  inherited  some  of  its 
original  owners'  integrity.  It  promised  loungers  a  fair 
degree  of  safety  in  leaving  keys  in  trunk-locks. 
Fashion  had,  indeed,  fled  to>  make  room  for  necessity; 
but  necessity  had  not  yet  allied  itself  to  vice.  The 
house  stood  in  a  row  of  its  kind,  not  far  from  Green- 
wich Avenue.  It  looked  out  upon  a  bare  triangular 
space  through  which  one  street  ran  completely,  ran 
till  it  was  out  of  sight;  and  to  which  another  street 
came,  peeped  in,  and,  as  if  charmed  by  the  prospect, 
ended  itself  then  and  there. 

Irving  thought  it  would  be  a  neat  stroke  of  economy 
to  learn  all  that  Mrs.  Wyse  knew  of  his  parentage,  and, 
practically  at  the  same  time,  engage  a  room.  The 
thought  pleased  him,  for  he  delighted  in  economy  when 
it  conflicted  with  none  of  his  desires.  He  hastily  as- 
cended the  steps  without  touching  his  hand  to  the  iron 
railing.  The  old-fashioned  knocker,  a  reminder  of  the 
Greenwich  Village  of  a  century  ago,  looked  at  him  as 
with  a  staring  and  unfriendly  eye.  As  he  let  it  fall, 
its  reverberation  seemed,  in  a  curious  manner,  to  re- 
sound in  some  unexplored  depths  of  his  being;  and  an 
indefinable  sense  of  oppression  was  upon  him,  at  the 
opening  of  the  street-door. 

On  deserting  Broadway,  Irving  had  left  behind  those 
clashing  sound-waves  of  which  one  is  scarcely  aware 
until  they  have  been  succeeded  by  silence.  In  this  tri- 
angular "  place,"  noises  were  infrequent  and  of  no 

[27] 


Something  Else 

violent  nature.  Now,  as  the  young  man  entered  the 
sombre  hallway,  a  deeper  stillness  closed  about  him, 
suggesting  still  farther  isolation.  At  a  glance,  his  eye 
took  in  the  various  doors,  the  abrupt  flight  of  narrow 
stairs,  which  barely  grazed  the  top  of  the  back  en- 
trance ;  the  interior  of  the  parlor,  revealed  through  the 
open  threshold,  and  the  gray-haired  lady  who  had  ad- 
mitted him. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Wyse,"  said  this  lady,  in  a  low,  re- 
strained voice. 

This,  then,  was  the  only  living  person,  at  least  so 
far  as  Irving  knew,  who  possessed  the  knowledge  of 
his  parentage.  The  young  man  inhaled  sharply,  and 
his  muscles  grew  rigid.  It  was  as  if  he  felt  himself 
about  to  plunge  into  a  cold  and  unknown  stream.  He 
gave  his  name,  and  referred  to  the  letter. 

"  Kindly  enter,"  said  the  lady,  showing  no  surprise, 
no  particular  interest.  She  moved  gracefully  toward 
the  front  room.  "  I  have  taken  this  house,"  she  con- 
tinued, as  he  followed  her,  "  and  I  rent  the  rooms  to 
those  who  can  furnish  satisfactory  references,  and  I  — " 

She  added  something  which,  to  judge  from  her  im- 
pressive manner,  was  of  interest;  but  her  voice  had  fal- 
len below  the  hearing-point.  The  lady  closed  the  door, 
shutting  out  the  lodging-house  atmosphere  with  its  evi- 
dence of  damp  umbrellas  in  the  rack,  a  bathroom  some- 
where upstairs,  and  a  surreptitious  habit,  on  the  part 
of  lodgers,  of  doing  light  housekeeping  over  gas  jets. 

They  seated  themselves  in  the  parlor,  she,  distant 
[28] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

and  self-possessed,  he,  doing  his  utmost  to  restrain  his 
impatience  and  to  prepare  himself  for  a  possible  shock. 
There  prevailed  in  the  room  an  air  of  taste  which  did 
much  to  condone  the  association  of  the  upright  piano 
with  the  folding-bed.  On  the  wall  were  two  portraits, 
one  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  other  of  a  man  who 
appeared  equally  distinguished. 

"  My  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Wyse,  following  his  dis- 
turbed glance.  "  The  Prince  —  later  King  Edward  — 
was  our  friend.  Thanks  to  him,  we  met  many  of  the 
nobility,  when  we  had  our  house  in  London." 

There  was  something  in  the  aloofness  of  the  lady's 
bearing  to  suggest  that,  in  her  association  with  the 
nobility,  she  had,  as  it  were,  caught  a  sort  of  duchess- 
contagion,  and  had  been  stricken  for  life.  She  im- 
pressed Irving  unsympathetically.  As  he  looked  from 
her  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  he  did  not,  for  a  moment, 
doubt  her  claim  to  the  rank  that  one  acquires  from  con- 
tiguity with  greatness.  All  this  was  outside  of  his 
experience,  and  therefore,  of  his  sympathy.  Moreover, 
he  was  not  here  to  learn  of  princes.  The  father  and 
mother  who  had  deserted  him  to  blind  chance,  who  had 
never  emerged  from  their  cloud  of  mystery  that  he 
might  accuse  them  definitely  —  what  of  these  ?  Never- 
theless, as  the  lady  drew  nearer  the  object  of  his  com- 
ing, he  felt  an  impulse  to  delay  the  revelation. 

"  And  so,"  came  the  distant  voice,  without  curiosity, 
without  satisfaction,  without,  in  a  word,  any  emotion, 
"  I  see  once  more  —  Irving  Payne."  She  paused  a  mo- 

[29] 


Something  Else 

ment,  then  added  reflectively,  "  It  is  but  yesterday,  or 
so  it  seems,  that  I  saw  you,  a  little  babe,  in  your 
mother's  arms." 

Irving's  face  burned.  He  sought  desperately  to  still 
the  sudden  hammering  of  his  heart.  "My  mother?" 
he  exclaimed,  sharply.  But  he  could  not  go  on,  though 
his  lips  moved.  What  could  he  ask,  without  asking 
amiss?  The  first  great  vital  fact  confronted  him,  de- 
manding definition.  He  stammered  out,  "  Is  she  dead?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Wyse  answered,  dispassionately,  "  she 
died  many  years  ago.  Shall  I  tell  you  all  I  know?  " 

"  I  entreat  you  to  do  so  —  tell  me  everything." 

"  About  twenty  years  ago,  I  lived  here  happily  with 
my  husband.  You  have,  of  course,  read  of  Colonel 
Wyse  in  your  history,  when  you  were  a  schoolboy. 
Yes,  that  great  commander  was  my  husband.  We  had 
a  lovely  home  on  Murray  Hill.  Perhaps  you  remember 
about  the  funeral  —  how  the  President  hurried  from 
Washington  on  a  special  car  —  that  was  before  special 
cars  were  so  common.  And  now,  see!  I  am  reduced 
to  taking  in  lodgers  — " 

The  faint  voice  sank  below  the  surface.  When  it 
came  to  Irving's  ears,  it  was  saying,  "  About  that  time. 
Yes,  a  woman  came  to  my  home  —  a  woman  of  the 
under  stratum."  Mrs.  Wyse  seemed  to  set  this  woman 
at  an  infinite  distance  from  herself  and  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  "  She  told  me  that  she  had  taken  into  her 
humble  tenement,  a  mother  and  babe  from  Chicago. 
The  mother  had  just  died  —  died  from  pneumonia 
brought  on,  doubtless,  by  exposure  to  the  weather  — 

[30] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

that  was  a  cruel  winter.  TJie  woman  from  Chicago  was 
your  mother;  and  you  were  the  babe." 

"Brought  on  by  exposure  to  the  weather?"  Irving 
ejaculated,  with  a  shudder.  "  And  you  say  that  was 
my  —  mother?  " 

"  Yes.  But  I  continue.  Why  did  this  woman  of  the 
lower  stratum  come  to  me,  why  tell  me  about  the  woman 
lying  dead  in  her  poor  room,  and  the  motherless  babe? 
I  will  explain.  When  the  Colonel  and  I  came  over  from 
Europe,  the  year  before  his  death, —  we  were  much 
abroad,  at  a  time  when  Europe  was  not  so  common, — 
it  chanced  that  our  tug  had  on  board  the  wife  of  the 
captain.  As  we  came  out  of  quarantine,  I  engaged  this 
excellent  woman  —  Mrs.  Payne  —  in  conversation.  She 
wished  to  adopt  a  little  boy,  never  having  had  any  chil- 
dren." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  Irving  exclaimed,  "  I  have  heard  Mother 
Payne  speak  of  the  lady  who  helped  her  to  find  an 
orphan." 

"  Exactly.  I  considered  her  purpose  a  worthy  one, 
and  let  it  be  known  that  I  should  like  to  find  a  deserv- 
ing case.  So  this  woman  of  the  lower  stratum  came 
to  me,  and  I  sent  her  to  the  wife  of  the  tugboat  captain. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  that  gentleman  was  Captain 
Silas  Payne,  who  became  your  foster-father;  his  boat 
was  the  Hudsonia.  The  Paynes  took  you,  without 
question.  Indeed,  they  wanted  to  know  nothing  of  your 
parents  since  they  no  doubt  — "  Away  went  the  aristo- 
cratic voice,  into  the  depths. 

Irving,  desperately  determined  to  catch  every  word 
[31] 


Something  Else 

that  concerned  himself,  drew  his  chair  nearer.  What 
he  most  wished  to  hear,  had  not  yet  been  uttered. 

Mrs.  Wyse,  whose  lowness  of  voice  was  not  the  re- 
sult of  weak  lungs,  but  of  acute  self -consciousness,  con- 
tinued in  that  key  which  modulated  her  personality 
to  the  tone  of  princes :  "  I  did  not  know  whether  the 
Paynes  adopted  you  or  not,"  she  murmured.  "  In  fact, 
I  lost  sight  of  all  the  characters  in  our  little  story. 
About  a  week  ago  I  read  in  the  papers  of  the  burning 
of  the  Hudsonia;  it  appears  that  Captain  Payne  had 
allowed  the  insurance  to  lapse.  I  am  very  sorry.  I 
saw  a  reference  to  his  '  adopted  son,'  and  knew  from 
the  details  that  it  must  have  been  the  babe  whom  I  had 
recommended  to  Mrs.  Payne.  It  occurred  to  me  that, 
since  you  are  now  of  age,  you  ought  to  know  at  least 
as  much  of  your  parents  as  the  woman  of  the  lower 
stratum  told  me  before  her  death." 

"  Her  death !  Then  this  woman  who  befriended  my 
mother  is  dead,  too?  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  pushed  from  an  *  L  '  platform,  and 
killed  instantly.  I  imagine  I  am  the  only  one  who  can 
tell  you  of  your  father  and  mother,  except — "  The 
rest  was  lost,  but  Irving  meant  to  have  all  before  he 
left. 

It  was  years  since  he  had  spoken  of  his  mother.  Now 
when  he  pronounced  the  name,  it  sounded  strange  and 
unnatural  in  his  ears,  as  if  his  voice  sought  a  new 
and  untried  tone  in  which  to  pronounce  the  word  of 
mystery. 

"  This  woman  of  the  lower  stratum,"  Mrs.  Wyse  con- 
[32] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

tinued,  "  told  me  that  while  your  mother  was  lying  dead 
in  her  home,  your  father  came  to  seek  her,  and,  find- 
ing her  dead,  threw  himself  upon  her  body  with  heart- 
breaking cries."  Mrs.  Wyse  spoke  evenly,  but  Irving 
started  up,  while  darting  pain  pierced  his  heart. 

"  Why  were  they  separated?  "  he  demanded,  roughly. 
"  Where  had  he  been  ?  Why  was  she  alone,  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  weather?  " 

"  Young  man,  pray  be  calm.  Your  mother  had 
married  against  the  wishes  of  her  family.  She  was 
connected  with  a  very  powerful  family  here,  but  your 
father,  while  a  good  and  deserving  man,  was  poor. 
He  was  a  Westerner,  and  they  had  eloped  to  Chicago. 
Affairs  had  gone  badly.  She  slipped  from  home  with 
her  tiny  babe,  to  appeal  to  her  family.  She  came  to 
New  York,  meaning  to  write  to  her  husband  that  she 
had  gained  forgiveness,  never  doubting  that  she  would 
obtain  it.  But  she  was  repulsed.  Disease  struck  her 
down.  She  wras  dying  when  she  wrote  to  her  husband, 
and  as  I  said,  when  he  reached  her,  she  was  already 
dead.  Your  father  died  soon  after,  also  of  pneu- 
monia, and  perhaps,  or,  I  should  say,  no  doubt,  without 
desire  to  live.  So  you  see,  they  have  all  been  gone, 
many  years  —  the  father,  the  mother,  and  the  woman 
who  sheltered  the  mother  and  nursed  the  father;  only 
you  are  left,  you  and  your  foster-parents." 

Irving,  who  was  still  upon  his  feet,  walked  to  the 
window,  and  stood  staring  vacantly  across  the  triangu- 
lar "  place."  His  emotions  were  varied,  but  their  only 
expression  was  a  deep  frown  of  perplexity.  That  his 

[33] 


Something  Else 

parents  had  probably  discarded  him  with  a  selfish,  even 
criminal  indifference  to  his  fate,  had  been  one  of  the 
sombre  probabilities  of  his  life.  That  is  why  he  had 
dreaded  all  revelations.  In  spite  of  the  tragedy  that 
spoke  beneath  the  surface  of  Mrs.  Wyse's  coldly  chosen 
words,  Irving  felt  an  almost  overpowering  relief.  That 
his  father  and  mother  should  be  dead  was  by  no  means 
startling;  it  was  what  he  had  always  hoped,  because 
death  seemed  for  them  the  only  excuse.  It  now  ap- 
peared that  they  possessed  this  excuse ;  not  only  so,  but 
death  had  overtaken  them  —  they  had  not  pursued  it. 

But  was  it  not  strange  that  the  Paynes  had  known 
nothing  of  the  story?  Perhaps  not,  since,  in  their  de- 
sire to  have  him  as  their  very  own,  they  had  refused  to 
examine  any  clew  that  might  have  led  to  his  identity. 
His  frown,  caused  by  the  maze  of  tangled  and  broken 
threads  that  alone  remained  of  his  past  —  this  frown 
vanished.  A  feeling  of  infinite  pity  for  the  mother 
seeking  forgiveness,  for  the  father  seeking  his  young 
wife,  for  the  obscure  fate  of  both,  softened  him,  but  not 
to  the  point  of  revealing  his  emotion  to  the  landlady. 
There  was  something  about  Mrs.  Wyse  that  demanded 
respect,  yet  forbade  confidences.  He  could  not  think 
her  false ;  but  he  believed  her  cold  and  unsympathetic. 

"  You  have  my  sincerest  gratitude  for  what  you  have 
told  me,"  he  said,  presently  walking  to  her  chair. 
"  What  you  have  told  me,  makes  —  everything  so  — 
different !  "  He  extended  his  hand,  and  for  a  moment 
her  cool  fingers  slipped  into  his  grasp.  "  What  was 
my  father's  name?  "  he  asked,  abruptly. 

[34] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  be  glad  to  know,"  murmured 
the  other,  "  that  your  mother  was  connected  with  the 
best  circles  of  New  York  society,  and  that  your  father 
was  a  gentleman,  and  that  it  was  not  indifference  that 
caused  you  to  be  left  unprovided  for.  His  name?  Let 
me  see  —  it  escapes  me  —  in  fact,  I  can  remember 
neither  his  name,  nor  your  mother's  maiden-name.  But 
I  shall,  no  doubt,  recollect  them;  or,  at  least,  if  I  do 
not  — " 

Irving's  disappointment  was  great.  "  Surely  you 
have  not  forgotten?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so  —  yes  —  I  cannot  remember.  The 
woman  of  the  lower  stratum  — " 

"She  is  dead!" 

"  Yes,  but  she  left  a  husband  —  a  worthless  fellow  — 
a  tramp,  a  miserable  tramp.  He  deserted  the  woman 
even  before  she  had  breathed  her  last.  He  remembers 
the  whole  story." 

"  A  tramp !  "  Irving  echoed,  in  dismay.  "  Then  the 
solution  is  indeed  lost !  " 

"  It  is  only  a  short  time  since  I  met  this  tramp,"  said 
Mrs.  Wyse,  thoughtfully.  "  He  hangs  about  the  city 
every  winter.  He  will  be  sure  to  cross  my  path  in  a 
month  or  two,  for  he  never  fails  to  question  me." 

Irving  regarded  her  doubtfully.     "  Question  you?  " 

"  Yes.  This  tramp  would  like  to  sell  his  secret,  and 
he  has  always  suspected  that  I  knew  the  people  who 
adopted  you.  The  Paynes  did  not  wish  themselves  to 
be  known  in  the  matter  that  was  to  shield  you.  So  the 
tramp  never  has  found  out  who  got  you,  or  what  has 

[35] 


Something  Else 

become  of  you.  But  he  thinks  I  know.  And  he  is  anx- 
ious to  make  a  little  money  out  of  his  knowledge." 

"As  for  my  mother's  family,"  said  Irving,  with  a 
contemptuous  smile,  "  I  would  not  give  a  penny  to  know 
who  they  are,  I  care  not  what  their  position.  Those 
who  turned  away  my  mother  to  die  of  exposure,  are 
dead  to  me.  But  certainly  I  should  like  to  know  my 
father's  name,  and  my  father's  people.  So  if  you  ever 
see  this  tramp  again,  do  not  fail  to  send  him  to  me." 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Wyse,  folding  her  hands. 
She  was  dressed  in  mourning,  presumably  in  memory  of 
the  Colonel,  and  the  black  setting  added  a  touch  to 
the  effect  of  her  gentility. 

"  You  have  rooms  to  rent,"  said  Irving,  somewhat 
abruptly.  "Have  you  a  cheap  one?  I  mean  a  very 
cheap  one." 

"  My  skylight-room  is  occupied.  There  is  the  third- 
floor  back,  for  four  dollars,  held  by  a  young  man  who 
means  to  give  it  up  unless  I  can  find  him  a  room-mate. 
He  is  very  respectable.  Would  you  like  to  share  the 
expense  with  him?  " 

Irving  considered.  "  What  do  you  know  of  his  busi- 
ness?" 

"  He  's  a  night  clerk  in  a  Broadway  railroad  office. 
He  is  at  work  from  six  in  the  evening  till  three  the  next 
morning." 

"  Well !  "  cried  Irving,  "  since  I  'm  to  be  at  work  dur- 
ing the  day,  that  would  suit  me.  So  would  the  price. 
But  I  'd  like  to  see  my  man." 

He  found  his  man  in  the  third-floor  back,  a  short, 
[36] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

stocky  young  fellow,  very  dark  and  taciturn  whose 
manners  plainly  indicated  that  Irving  was  to  be  spared 
the  fatigues  of  friendship.  In  planning  how  boxes  and 
chairs  could  be  so  arranged  as  to  permit  free  movement 
in  the  narrow  chamber,  it  was  Irving  who  talked,  and 
smiled  amiably,  while  Wedging  merely  nodded  or  shook 
his  head. 

"  Many  things  can  be  piled  upon  the  radiator,  I  sup- 
pose," Irving  remarked.  "  It  never  gets  hot  enough 
to  burn  anything,  eh?  That  bedstead  will  have  to  stay 
across  the  window.  We  '11  bring  in  another,  and  fill  all 
the  rest  of  the  space  with  it.  But  where  '11  we  be? 
Suppose  I  am  in  bed  at  ten.  Here  you  come  at  three 
in  the  morning.  You  get  your  bed  and  stretch  it  across 
the  door.  Good.  At  about  eight  —  or,  at  worst,  seven 
—  I  am  ready  to  sally  forth.  Now,  will  you  be  willing 
to  get  up  and  let  me  pass,  or  must  I  go  down  the  fire- 
escape  ?  " 

Smiles  are  luxuries;  Wedging  was  an  economist. 
"  I  '11  change  the  door  hinges  so  the  door  '11  open  into 
the  hall." 

"And  you  won't  object  to  my  climbing  over  you, 
every  morning?  " 

"  Not  for  two  dollars  a  week,"  answered  the  utili- 
tarian. 

That  evening  as  Irving  dined  at  the  window-shelf  of 
a  lunch-wagon,  which  he  styled  his  "  buffet,"  a  new 
exhilaration  flavored  his  egg  sandwich  and  Frankfurter. 
Before  the  burning  of  the  Hudsonia,  he  had  felt  it  his 
duty  to  learn  all  he  possibly  could  at  the  university  — 


Something  Else 

his  foster-parents  asked  only  that  he  become  everything 
they  were  not.  In  their  necessity,  it  was  now  his  part 
to  aid  them  with  his  brain  and  hands.  An  artist- 
friend  had  found  him  occupation;  upon  the  morrow  he 
was  to  begin  his  career  as  bread-winner.  Nothing  could 
have  shed  such  cheering  light  upon  the  prospect  as  he 
had  derived  from  the  revelation  of  Mrs.  Wyse.  The 
burden  of  the  past  had  slipped  away.  The  cloud  that 
had,  throughout  his  life,  threatened  his  future,  seemed 
to  have  rolled  away,  showing  a  new  sky  full  of  hope. 
True,  his  parents  were  dead;  but  they  had  loved  him. 
Father  and  mother  had  become  separated ;  but  their  mis- 
fortunes had  been  caused  by  their  own  poverty  and  the 
unforgiving  spirit  of  their  kindred. 

When  he  returned  to  the  triangle  where  the  three 
streets  met,  what  had  formerly  seemed  only  dulness, 
was  now  peace  and  sweet  content.  As  he  passed  the 
parlor-door  on  his  way  to  his  room,  Mrs.  Wyse  addressed 
him,  and  he  reproached  himself  for  being  irritated  by  her 
almost  inaudible  voice. 

"  I  hope  you  will  regard  Gotham  Repose  as  a  home, 
rather  than  a  lodging-house,"  she  murmured.  "  Every 
evening  this  room  belongs  to  my  —  guests.  The  piano 
is  free  to  all.  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  my  hospitality." 
She  appeared  distinguished,  as  she  stood  in  the  door- 
way, the  light  streaming  over  her  gray  hair,  and  touch- 
ing her  correct  mouth. 

Irving  thanked  her,  thinking  it  not  likely  that  he 
would  ever  put  this  hospitality  to  the  proof.  He  had 
almost  reached  Wedging's  room,  when  he  discovered 

[38] 


A  Lodging- House  Dream 

a  young  woman  coming  down  from  the  garret  —  doubt- 
less the  occupant  of  the  skylight-room.  Instead  of  a 
staircase,  there  was,  as  one  often  finds  in  such  houses, 
simply  a  carpeted  ladder.  The  first  warning  the  young 
man  received,  of  any  one  coming  down  this  ladder,  was 
a  little  foot,  and  an  ankle,  rounded  to  a  marvel. 

It  was  just  such  a  foot,  it  was  just  such  an  ankle,  as 
Irving  most  admired,  and  least  often  saw ;  and  foot  and 
ankle  belonged  to  a  form  which  carried  out  all  the 
promise  of  this  exquisite  beginning.  It  was  a  figure 
neither  tall  nor  impressive,  but  it  was  one  filled  out  to 
the  extreme  of  ideal  plumpness,  without  the  indiscretion 
of  heaviness. 

Irving  passed  slowly  on;  but  when  he  reached  his 
door,  he  found  it  impossible  to  enter  without  looking 
back.  Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  roundness  of 
her  arms,  cheeks,  chin,  neck.  This  wave-scheme  was 
continued  in  her  black  hair  which  was  bound  in  scallops 
above  large  black  eyes  in  a  most  tantalizing  manner. 
There  was,  above  all,  a  curve  of  the  red  lips  which  would 
have  undermined  the  last  foundation  of  resistance,  had 
one  stone  remained  upon  another,  in  Irving's  breast. 

Her  dress  was  in  the  perfection  of  the  latest  possible 
mode;  but  Irving  was  too  absorbed  in  noting  face  and 
form,  to  judge  of  the  quality  of  fabrics, —  a  practised 
eye  needs  but  a  glance  to  differentiate  the  debutante 
of  the  upper  world  from  the  simple  shopgirl.  Still, 
Irving's  reason  had  not  entirely  deserted  him;  it  told 
him  that  a  lady  of  Fifth  Avenue  would  not  inhabit  the 
skylight-room. 

[39] 


Something  Else 

When  the  last  sound  of  those  amazing  feet  had  died 
away,  Irving  slipped  quietly  into  his  new  quarters  —  as 
quietly  as  if  afraid  of  awakening  a  dream  of  beauty. 
One  look  told  him  that  Mrs.  Wyse  had  set  the  second 
bed  —  a  slender  iron  affair  —  upon  one  leg  in  the  only 
available  corner,  there  to  remain  until  Wedging  came  to 
reduce  it  to  the  horizontal.  Irving's  baggage  was  here 
from  the  ferry-house  —  the  Paynes  lived  in  New  Jersey. 

Backing  the  one  rocking-chair  against  the  bed  which 
he  was  to  occupy,  —  thus  removing  the  rockers  from 
the  tiny  field  of  operations, —  Irving  seated  himself,  chin 
upon  hand,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  bewildering  dream. 
The  radiator  gradually  lost  all  warmth;  then  it  became 
cool;  then  cold.  At  last,  the  young  man  started  up, 
and  sought  in  his  box  for  three  rubber  balls.  He  was 
an  adept  in  keeping  them  up  in  the  air,  and  it  occurred 
to  him  that  such  rapid  exercise  should  be  warming. 
He  could  not  go  to  bed  so  early,  for  he  had  not  thought 
long  enough  about  the  exquisite  curves  of  —  of  the 
floating  flag  above  his  railroad  office,  of  the  rounded 
dome,  the  gilded  letters  of  the  various  signs.  All  his 
future  seemed  written,  in  rounded  lines  of  beauty. 

He  grew  warm;  so  warm  that  a  flush  appeared  in  his 
cheeks.  A  ball  dropped  but  he  did  not  pick  it  up.  He 
had  heard  a  sound  from  below  that  seemed  calling.  It 
was  a  "  diminished  chord,"  crushed  out  of  the  upright 
piano. 

"  Let  us  see  about  that ! "  said  Irving,  preparing  to 
descend.  He  examined  his  tie,  patted  his  hair,  reset  his 
pin.  Then  he  hurried  down  to  meet  his  fate. 

[40] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   JESSIE   ROMANCE 

IRVING  PAYNE'S  dream  of  splendid  curves  did 
not  vanish  with  his  first  night  at  Gotham  Repose. 
For  one  of  his  years,  he  had  seen  a  good  deal  of 
the  world,  hence  did  not  make  the  mistake  of  confusing; 
the  dream  with  reality.     Still,  in  the  midst  of  such  re- 
lentless realism  as  one  finds  in  a  railroad  office,  one  may 
yet  live  much  in  dreams. 

Twenty  stories  above  the  sidewalk,  the  noise  of  Broad- 
way came  to  those  office  windows  as  the  distant  hum  of 
bees.  In  the  office,  the  routine  work  of  typewriting 
letters  and  making  tabulated  reports  scarcely  allowed 
one's  eyes  the  briefest  holiday  excursions  from  green 
baize  tables  to  blue-prints  along  the  walls.  So  far  as 
intercourse  with  mankind  was  concerned,  Irving  might 
have  been  on  a  desert  island  with  a  few  savages  to  fetch 
and  carry.  So  deep  was  one's  immersion  in  this  back- 
water of  existence,  that  the  swinging  of  the  heavy  glass 
doors  passed  unnoticed. 

Messenger  boys,  no  less  obviously  uniformed  by  the 
insolence  of  their  swagger,  than  by  cloth  and  buttons, 
kept  the  elevators  busy.  The  noisy  feet  of  telegraph 
boys,  even  their  open-mouthed  manner  of  chewing  in- 
terminable gum,  passed  unperceived. 

[41] 


Something  Else 

Had  there  been  a  disposition  on  Irving's  part  to  es- 
cape, for  a  moment,  from  this  perennial  hurry,  there 
was  the  chief  day-clerk  to  crush  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation.  It  was  the  business  of  the  "  old  man  " — 
who  was  not  much  older  than  Irving  —  to  destroy  in- 
dividualism. The  "  old  man  "  knew  that  he  owed  his 
position  to  the  fact  that  he  was  like,  not  unlike,  all  suc- 
cessful chief-clerks.  It  was  for  him  to  get  the  utmost 
work  possible  from  each  inferior,  and  the  way  to  do  so 
was  to  treat  each  man  as  a  unit  in  a  great  machine.  To 
this  superior,  Irving  was  no  more  a  man  than  was  the 
private  stenographer  a  young  woman. 

It  did  not  take  many  days  for  Irving  to  realize  the 
impossibility  of  pleasing  the  chief -clerk.  There  was  a 
certain  amount  of  work  to  be  done ;  if  he  failed  to  do  it, 
there  was  a  host  of  others  waiting  to  step  into  his 
place.  To  do  one's  best  meant  exactly  what  was  re- 
quired of  every  pawn  in  this  great  game  of  business. 
That  is  why  every  face  wore  a  look,  more  or  less  alike, 
not  of  kinship  of  blood,  or  brotherhood,  but  of  common 
fate.  In  that  microcosm,  so  near  the  sky,  each  brain 
that  felt  itself  capable  of  independent  thought  and  wider 
achievement  felt,  at  the  same  time,  that  iron  bit  of  neces- 
sity that  guides  through  unflowered  paths  to  one's  daily 
bread. 

Hitherto,  Irving's  life  had  been  singularly  free  and 
simple, —  free  because  he  was  never  required  to  serve 
actively  upon  Captain  Payne,  and  therefore  was  as  un- 
restrained as  the  river,  without  the  river's  toll  of  labor; 
simple,  because  of  the  wholesome,  if  obscure,  lives  of  his 

[42] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

foster-parents.  The  Paynes  had  asked  nothing  of  their 
adopted  son,  except  to  acquire  an  education  that  would 
fit  him  for  a  higher  sphere  than  they  had  ever  known. 
But  for  the  burning  of  Captain  Payne's  tugboat,  having 
faithfully  attended  the  university  long  enough  to  satisfy 
his  foster-parents  —  needless  to  say,  himself  as  well  — 
would  have  been  free  to  look  about,  before  plunging  into 
any  business.  But  when  the  Hudsonia  went  up  in 
flames,  the  young  man  was  glad  enough  to  thank  his 
artist-friend  for  his  trouble  in  securing  him  a  paying 
position.  It  did  seem  a  pity,  after  studying  so  long  at 
the  university,  that  he  could  not  work  at  Latin,  or 
French,  instead  of  railroad  tariffs.  Fortunately  he  did 
not  find  his  Latin  or  French  at  all  in  his  way. 

At  the  lodging-house  of  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  Irving 
would  scarcely  have  found  sufficient  relief  for  his  buoy- 
ant disposition,  in  its  recoil  from  the  remorseless  grind 
of  Broadway,  had  it  not  been  for  his  dream.  There 
was  no  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  his  room-mate. 
He  saw  little  of  Wedging,  except  when  crawling  over 
that  dark  and  taciturn  young  man's  sleeping  form,  in 
the  morning  escapes  from  the  third-floor  back.  It  is 
true  that,  on  ascending  to  the  cramped  room  at  bedtime, 
he  usually  found  sheets  of  paper  strewn  about,  covered 
with  rows  of  figures.  These  figures,  scribbled  by  Wedg- 
ing, seemed  to  deal  with  the  market  prices  of  every 
stock  and  bond  cried  upon  Wall  Street,  or  at  the  Curb. 
Wedging's  calculations  usually  ended  in  a  neat  row  of 
six  zeroes,  preceded  by  a  figure  not  to  be  despised. 
That  is  why  Irving,  when  conversing  with  Jessie  Tiff, 

[43] 


Something  Else 

often  referred  to  his  room-mate  as  "  the  millionaire."  In 
the  meantime,  Wedging  worked  for  fifteen  dollars  a 
week. 

Irving  received  twenty,  but  did  not  therefore  feel 
justified  in  an  interest  in  the  Stock  Exchange  or  the 
Board  of  Trade.  But  it  did  put  him,  as  it  were,  upon 
his  feet,  at  least  for  conversational  purposes,  so  far  as 
Jessie  was  concerned.  Jessie  Tiff  was  the  one  relief 
that  rendered  Mrs.  Wyse's  lodging-house  a  fit  recoil 
from  the  slavery  of  the  green  baize  desk.  She  was  the 
dream,  the  dream  of  glorious  curves,  that  had  descended 
by  way  of  the  carpeted  ladder  from  the  skylight-room, 
into  his  life.  If  the  day's  work  in  the  skyscraper  was 
a  period  of  suspended  mental  animation,  a  sort  of  wak- 
ing dream  in  monotone  and  monochrome,  the  dream  of 
Jessie  —  which  made  nothing  of  her  last  name  —  was 
done  in  infinite  variety. 

Irving  sometimes  dreamed  that  she  was  not  a  shop- 
girl, that  her  tones  were  never  jarring,  that  her  form  of 
speech  was  not  remorselessly  bound  in  the  fetters  of  bor- 
rowed slang.  He  dreamed  that  her  taste  in  dressing  had 
not  been  derived  from  close  observation  of  those  upon 
whom  she  waited  at  the  department  store;  he  dreamed 
that  her  splendid  poise,  her  graceful  movements,  her 
little  archings  of  the  brows,  and  flexible  turnings  of 
the  mouth,  had  not  been  copied  from  living  prototypes 
of  the  fashionable  avenues.  He  dreamed  that  all  Jes- 
sie's manifestations  of  culture  and  refinement  were  in- 
herent, were  as  much  a  part  of  the  actual  Jessie,  as  was 
her  charming  form,  and  her  deliciously  rounded  cheeks. 

[44] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

It  is  true  that  there  were  times  when  the  rather  high- 
pitched,  rather  sharp-edged  tones  of  the  pretty  girl, 
made  these  dreams  quake  for  their  very  lives ;  when  the 
same  slangy  expression  that  had  done  duty  at  a  display 
at  the  Museum  of  Art,  was  brought  to  bear  upon  a 
seven-course  dinner  for  forty  cents  —  both  were 
"  heavenly."  Had  her  phrases  been  electrotyped,  not  to 
save  the  labor  of  setting  up  new  type,  but  because  there 
were  no  new  ideas  to  be  published?  There  were  times, 
too,  when,  through  the  veneering  of  a  more  complex 
semblance,  little  spots  of  the  original  material  appeared, 
before  the  ever-watchful  Jessie  could  apply  a  brush  of 
borrowed  varnish. 

But  there  were  other  times  when  Jessie's  great  black 
eyes  looked  out  wistfully  upon  the  world  that  threatened 
to  engulf  her,  and  when  the  curved  mouth  was  held  mo- 
tionless in  something  like  the  melancholy  of  a  child  who 
is  sad  just  because  she  must  at  one  time  or  another  be 
everything.  At  such  times,  Irving's  dreams,  no  longer 
fighting  against  great  odds  of  actuality,  held  high 
carnival  —  a  Mardi  Gras,  of  which  Irving  was  the  king, 
and  the  queen  was  not  far  to  seek. 

It  was  a  curious  truth  —  maybe  it  was  not  the  truth, 
then  ?  —  but  it  seemed  to  Irving  that  he  most  en j  oy ed 
Jessie  when  she  was  not  present !  Could  such  a  paradox 
be  possible  ?  For  instance,  when  Monsieur  du  Pays  filled 
the  parlor  with  his  tenor  voice  —  that  voice,  so  Madame 
said,  that  had  once  sung  with  Caruso  —  Irving  was  filled 
to  his  inmost  being  with  the  melody  of  Jessie.  It  might 
be  soon  after  the  girl  had  slipped  from  his  side,  soon 

[45] 


Something  Else 

after  she  had  ascended  to  her  skylight-room  —  per- 
chance to  clean  her  gloves  with  benzine  —  and  it  was 
certain  to  be  while  Monsieur  was  still  singing.  Mon- 
sieur's voice  would  tremble  with  — 

"  J'ai  vu  les  s6aphins  en  songe  — " 

To  the  young  man,  "  seraphins  "  was  the  French  for 
Jessie-phins. 

According  to  Jessie,  Monsieur  was  temporarily  "  out 
of  a  job."  Madame  stated  it  differently:  "Monsieur 
du  Pays  is  no  longer  appreciated."  He  had  sung  in 
grand  opera,  many  times  in  Paris;  once,  but  yes!  — 
in  Milan ;  and  at  the  Metropolitan,  before  the  fire. 
Alas !  Monsieur  is  no  longer  young.  He  tosses  back  his 
great  head  with  the  air,  he  swells  his  chest,  and  as  he 
sings,  keeps  his  eyes  glued  upon  the  portrait  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  But  he  sees  not  that  once-boasted  as- 
set of  American  High  Society.  No,  no,  he  beholds,  in- 
stead, thousands  of  breathless  faces  propped,  as  it  were, 
against  giant  support  of  his  "  Vive  encore,  hymne 
eternel."  And  when,  in  his  last  "  S'elance  vers  leciel" 
he  projects  his  voice  heavenward,  he  hears  the  tumult  of 
vanished  years,  as  if  ten  thousand  bravas  sound  for  him 
their  ghost-music.  But  to  Irving  Payne,  all  this  is 
simply  Jessie  made  harmoniously  audible. 

"  His  throat  is  uncertain,"  Madame  du  Pays  explains 
for  the  hundredth  time.  "  That  is  just  the  trouble.  One 
never  can  tell  when  it  will  cease  to  —  how  do  you  say  ? 
—  support.  Monsieur  has  stood  behind  the  footlights 
that  caressed  Parepa  Rosa  and  other  very  great 

[46] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

artistes.  But  on  his  last  appearance  before  the  multi- 
tude —  mon  dieu!  his  head  was  thrown  back,  his  chest 
was  expanded,  as  you  see  it  now;  but  no  music  issued 
from  that  traitorous  throat, —  not  so  much  as  one  audi- 
ble sigh.  What  would  you?  The  rabble  thinks  only  of 
getting  its  money's  worth.  If  one  cannot  sing,  another 
can.  But  you  hear  him  to-night  —  is  he  not  the  great 
singer?"  And  Madame's  eyes,  usually  gaunt  and 
troubled,  fill  with  a  shining  delight,  bright  enough,  per- 
haps, to  dissolve  a  tear.  And,  with  Jessie  gone,  Irving 
sees  only  Jessie,  hears  only  Jessie,  loves  Jessie,  or  loves 
her  not.  For  it  is  a  dream. 

And  if  Jessie  Tiff  has  designs  upon  this  young  rail- 
road clerk,  if  there  is  premeditation  in  her  absences,  in 
her  preening  of  feathers,  in  her  clever  imitation  of  finer 
natures,  who  shall  say  she  has  not  the  right?  Need 
we  climb  the  carpeted  ladder  and  slyly  enter  Jessie's 
room  —  the  right  of  all  honest  readers  —  to  discover 
the  young  occupant,  in  faded  kimono,  carefully  pressing 
and  otherwise  mysteriously  renovating  her  gowns  and 
winter  wraps  for  the  undoing  of  mankind?  Shall  we 
watch  her  creep  from  bed  in  the  cold  dawn  to  cook  her 
egg,  and  heat  her  coffee,  over  the  gas  jet,  shivering  the 
while  —  not  we,  but  Jessie  —  because  the  radiator  is 
colder  than  her  feet?  One  may  have  perfect  feet,  it 
appears,  without  the  means  of  warming  them,  at  the 
sixth  hour  of  a  December  morning.  Shall  we  take  note 
of  the  fact  that,  though  her  wages  are  only  six  dollars 
a  week,  her  room  rent  is  two  —  that  her  breakfast  and 
dinner  cost  fifteen  cents  each,  while  the  luncheon  in  the 


Something  Else 

department  store  restaurant  is  ten?  At  any  rate  she 
has  not  much  left,  after  the  price  of  living,  for  the 
pleasures  of  life!  There  is  something  like  a  dollar  and 
thirty  cents  for  occasionally  tipping  the  waiter,  and  for 
clothes  and  laundry  —  but  fortunately  one  can  do  one's 
own  washing.  No  doubt  there  is  a  mother  on  the  East 
Side,  who  borrows  a  little  money  now  and  then  —  there 
is  very  little  over  yonder,  it  is  said.  So  let  Irving  Payne 
look  to  himself! 

She  recognized  in  Irving  Payne  a  clean,  upright  man, 
one  to  be  trusted.  Without  doubt,  his  devotion  to  any 
girl  would  take  the  old-fashioned  course  of  matrimony. 
Perhaps  she  would  marry  him.  His  twenty  dollars  a 
week  seemed  a  great  deal,  and,  for  all  she  knew,  her  re- 
spect for  him  might  really  be  that  love  of  which  people 
spoke  when  they  were  on  the  stage,  and  of  which  every- 
body sang.  It  was  plain  enough  that  Irving  brightened 
whenever  he  saw  her  coming,  and  that  he  sank  into  a 
sort  of  trance  whenever  she  went  away.  Perhaps  love 
affected  him  thus ;  all  hearts  do  not  act  alike. 

As  Jessie  industriously  washed  her  stockings  on  the 
rickety  stand  of  the  little  skylight-room,  she  cared  not 
a  pin  for  the  powerful  voice  of  Monsieur  du  Pays,  as  it 
came  storming  up  the  three  flights  of  steps.  As  clearly 
as  if  she  were  down  there,  she  could  see  Irving  sitting 
with  folded  arms,  dreaming  of  her,  while  pale-faced, 
emotional  little  Madame  du  Pays  accompanied  her 
husband  on  the  coldly  severe  upright  piano.  Jessie 
preferred  the  pianos  in  some  of  her  friends'  boarding- 
houses,  pianos  whose  tops  groaned  under  a  heterogeneous 

[48] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

collection  of  small  statuary  in  undress,  glass-encased 
chromos,  and  lithographs.  But  Mrs.  Wyse  did  not  use 
her  instrument  as  a  pedestal  for  art.  Mrs.  Wyse  would 
be  seated  by  the  folding-bed  which  disguised  itself  so 
successfully  as  a  bookcase,  that  it  seemed  rather  an  ac- 
cident than  an  accessory  to  the  conspiracy  of  utilizing 
space.  Yes,  there  sat  Mrs.  Wyse  —  Jessie  saw  her  only 
too  distinctly  —  wearing  the  lofty  look  that  indicated 
she  had  had  the  music  made  to  order  at  some  fashion- 
able voice-establishment. 

Well,  they  liked  that  sort  of  thing.  And  so  did  she, 
she  supposed,  only  —  one  must  make  one's  living,  and 
make  it  in  these  very  stockings,  until  others  can  be 
darned. 

Twenty  dollars  a  week  is,  no  doubt,  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  one  who  earns  only  six.  But  remember!  with 
twenty  dollars  come  five  times  as  many  longings  that 
may  almost  be  gratified.  On  a  small  income,  you  know 
your  limitations ;  but  when  the  income  is  enlarged,  who 
knows  what  may  happen?  Think  of  thirty  dollars' 
worth  of  longings  on  twenty  a  week !  It  was  the  prob- 
lem of  Irving's  life  to  get  his  thirty  dollars'  worth  for 
his  twenty.  Not  that  he  had  twenty  a  week  that  one 
may  take  from  his  pocket  to  spend  as  one  pleases.  Half 
of  Irving's  earnings  went  to  his  foster-parents,  that 
they  might  not  lose  their  former  payments  on  their  New 
Jersey  cottage. 

The  first  Sunday,  he  took  them  the  ten  dollars.  The 
second  Sunday,  he  sent  it  —  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  leave  Mrs.  Wyse's  lodging-house  on  that  second 

[49] 


Something  Else 

Sunday.  The  third  Sunday  he  seemed  glued  to  the 
house.  On  the  fourth,  departure  was  unthinkable. 
The  first  week  of  Jessie  was  like  playing  with  the  co- 
caine habit.  Later,  it  was  fastened  upon  him. 

The  department  store  in  which  Jessie  had  accepted  a 
position  as  saleslady  —  she  served  at  the  handkerchief- 
counter,  near  the  music-room  —  was  but  a  block  or  so 
from  the  airy  nest  in  which  Irving  daily  drooped  his 
wings.  Until  six  in  the  evening,  he  seldom  stood  up, 
and  she  never  sat  down,  except  during  the  noon-hour. 
Naturally,  they  sometimes  sat  down  together.  It  might 
be  in  some  dingy  little  restaurant  in  the  French  Quarter, 
or  among  the  Italians  south  of  Washington  Square, 
where  everything  is  cheap,  and  strange  tastes  may  be 
attributed  to  a  foreign  cuisine.  Or,  they  might  lunch 
together  in  the  department  store  restaurant.  And  what 
a  difficult  taste  he  had  in  the  way  of  handkerchiefs! 
Considering  his  means,  that  young  man  bought  too  many 
of  them,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that !  This  prodigal- 
ity took  him  often  to  her  counter. 

He  was  standing  there  with  her  one  day,  just  after 
their  noon-luncheon,  when  they  heard  for  the  first  time 
a  song  that  was  destined  soon  to  sweep  with  awful  dev- 
astation down  every  street  and  alley  of  the  city,  like 
the  consuming  fury  of  a  prairie  fire.  It  began  —  in 
ragtime,  of  course  — 

"  You  may  have  the  rest  of  the  world, 
But  give  me  New  York  for  mine. 
I  'd  swop  the  dough  of  Baltimo', 
And  all  the  wealth  of  Philadelph', 
And  all  the  fat  of  Cincinnat', 

[SO] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

And  all  the  can  of  old  San  Fran', 
For  a  little  bit  of  Broadway." 

That  was  the  name  of  this  piece  de  resistance,  "  A  Little 
Bit  of  Broadway."  There  was  a  chorus,  also,  you  may 
be  sure,  in  ragtime  : — 

"New  York!     They  all  embark 

From  the  land  of  Cork, 
Let  alone  Newark,  New  Jer    .     .     .    zy." 

Jessie  smiled.  "  Good  for  the  nice  old  boy !  "  she 
said  heartily,  glancing  at  the  partition  that  shut  off  the 
music-room.  "  He  's  found  a  job  at  last." 

It  was,  in  truth,  Monsieur  du  Pays  singing  in  the 
music-room,  so  that  prospective  purchasers  of  the  new- 
est songs  might  know  what  they  were  getting  for  their 
twenty-three  cents.  Poor  Monsieur  du  Pays ! 

"  He  deserves  something  better,"  Irving  exclaimed, 
with  a  wry  mouth. 

"  Sure!  Don't  all  of  us?  "  Jessie  smiled.  "  He  's 
on  to  his  job,  all  right.  Ain't  he  the  sweet  old 
thing!" 

Irving  winced.  But  when  Jessie  smiled  into  his  eyes, 
not  only  showing  a  generous  pleasure  in  the  good  luck 
of  the  whilom  star  of  grand  opera,  but  at  the  same  time 
revealing  an  entrancing  tenderness  of  melting  lips  — 

There  were  other  times  —  better  times,  for  they  were 
mellowed  by  soft  lights  which  were  closely  kin  to  even 
softer  shadows.  This  was  after  Jessie  had  joined  the 
evening's  army  of  working-girls.  That  sea  of  weary 
faces,  was  touched,  seemingly,  with  a  sardonic  mirthful- 

[51] 


Something  Else 

ness,  as  if  laughing  at  the  fate  so  curiously  devoid  of 
humor.  Jessie,  borne  along  in  the  stream,  was  more 
like  a  beautiful  leaf  floating  on  dark  waters,  than  an 
integral  part  of  the  stream  of  toil.  Irving  would  de- 
tach her,  leading  her  away  to  some  cosey  restaurant  — 
what  is  so  romantic  as  eating?  —  where  prices  rose  to 
the  level  of  cosiness.  For  a  time  they  became  denizens 
of  the  world  in  which  the  young  man  would  have  re- 
mained always. 

As  they  rested,  with  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  bless- 
ings of  rest,  among  snowy  napkins,  gleaming  mirrors, 
and  palms  that  were  real;  as  they  were  soothed  by  the 
music  of  an  orchestra  composed  of  three  violins  and  a 
piano ;  as  they  were  touched  to  vivid  glory  by  the  edg- 
ing of  starlike  lights,  it  was  as  if  the  department  store 
and  the  railroad  office  were  the  dreams,  and  this  dream, 
the  real  awakening.  If  the  piano  was  always  breaking 
through  the  gossamer  cloth  of  melody  spun  by  the  weav- 
ing bows,  did  they  notice  ?  If  the  waiter  kept  them  wait- 
ing because  he  saw  no  fee  at  the  end  of  his  field  of 
service,  did  they  care? 

When  the  possibility  of  lingering  longer  in  such  scenes 
of  gayety  diminished  to  the  vanishing-point  of  the  cash- 
ier's half-veiled  look,  Irving  would  take  Jessie  home,  by 
way  of  Fourth  Street;  and,  as  they  entered  the  quiet 
"  place  "  which  he  dubbed  "  Lee's  Triangle,"  perhaps  he 
would  sing  out  j  oy ously  — : 

"Let  alone  Newark,  New  Jer    .    .    .    ey." 
[52] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

Then  both  would  trip  up  the  steps  of  Gotham  Repose 
singing, 

"New  York!—" 

Which  they  pronounced  N'Yark  — 

"  They  all  embark 

From  the  land  of  Cork"  (Cark,  mind!) 
"Let  alone  Newark,  New  Jer    .     .     .    zy." 

"  You  are  always  calling  this  place  '  Lee's  Triangle,'  " 
said  Jessie,  on  one  such  occasion.  "  That 's  not  its 
name." 

"  It 's  my  name  for  it,"  said  Irving,  serenely. 
"  These  three  streets,  coming  together,  make  an  isosceles 
triangle,  don't  they  ?  " 

Did  they  ?     Jessie  was  sure  she  did  n't  know. 

"  So,"  Irving  expounded,  "  as  it  's  an  isosceles  tri- 
angle, I  call  it  '  Lee's  Triangle  '  for  short." 

Jessie  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  isosceles  meant, 
but  she  laughed ;  it  is  nearly  always  safe  to  laugh. 

They  went  into  the  parlor  —  reference  is  made  to  no 
particular  evening,  but  to  any  evening.  She  picked  out 
the  air  of  "A  Little  Bit  of  Broadway."  When  she 
might  have  struck  a  wrong  key,  Irving  held  his  finger 
upon  it,  to  frighten  her  away;  but  if  she  stayed  away, 
his  hand  went  seeking  hers.  It  often  proved  successful 
in  the  quest.  There  was  more  enjoyment  in  touching 
her  hand,  than  in  merely  looking  at  it.  Its  shapeliness 
seemed  of  that  sort  that  is  better  felt  than  seen ;  besides, 
its  warmth  was  lost  to  the  eye.  Sometimes  he  held  it  so 

[53] 


Something  Else 

long  before  she  drew  smilingly  away,  that  the  possibility 
of  Mrs.  Wyse's  entrance  somewhat  disconcerted  him. 
But  it  was  not  disconcerting  to  Jessie;  and  it  was  de- 
licious to  Irving. 

Sometimes  when  they  came  briskly  out  of  the  world  of 
crystalline  white,  Irving  would  say,  "  I  'm  afraid  your 
hands  must  be  cold." 

And  Jessie,  very  frankly  would  extend  her  hand  with- 
out a  word  —  ten  times  more  charming  because  without 
a  word  —  and  Irving  would  take  her  hand ;  sometimes 
he  touched  her  cheek,  so  red  from  the  nipping  frost,  so 
round,  so  adorably  round.  Mrs.  Wyse  never  inter- 
rupted them.  That  was  well  enough.  Old  people  do 
not  understand ;  old  people  imagine  —  but  what  have 
we  to  do  with  old  people  • —  Irving  and  Jessie  were  as 
young  as  two  persons  can  possibly  be  at  their  age  in 
the  twentieth  century  —  what  a  great,  what  a  magnifi- 
cent, what  a  marvellous  century  it  is,  to  be  sure,  be- 
cause we  are  living  in  it  1 

Doubtless  it  was  as  well  for  Wedging  that  he  had  to 
go  to  work  at  six  p.  M.,  and  hence  saw  nothing  of  all 
this.  On  Sundays  when  both  Irving  and  Wedging  were 
free,  Jessie  could  take  her  choice;  each  was  equally  de- 
voted. Though  Wedging  "  knew  nothing  about  mu- 
sic," and  therefore,  being  a  true-born  American, 
boasted  somewhat  vain-gloriously  of  the  fact,  he  never 
tired  of  the  havoc  Jessie  wrought  in  popular  airs.  Like 
a  ship  at  anchor,  he  rode  the  sea  of  melody,  heeding 
not  the  changes  in  the  currents.  He  took  up  his  posi- 
tion whence  he  could  look  into  her  face,  usually  on  the 

[54] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

very  divan  occupied  on  weekdays  by  Irving.  As  Irving 
listened  every  day,  so  listened  his  room-mate  once  a 
week,  and  both  heard  the  same  thing  —  not  the  Coon 
song,  not  the  ragtime  ditty,  not  the  Indian  ballad,  but 
the  subterranean  murmur  of  their  own  emotions.  If 
Jessie  lightly  skirted  difficult  bits  of  accompaniment,  if, 
beholding  ugly  runs,  she  darted  around  the  base,  in 
order  to  play  again  the  easy  passages,  who  cared? 
Who  cared  for  anything  but  Jessie  ? 

To  Wedging,  love  was  no  dream.  It  was  a  reality, 
wide  awake  and  keenly  alive  to  the  certainty  that  his 
income  could  not  adequately  support  a  wife.  This 
knowledge  kept  his  intelligence  from  even  so  much  as 
dozing. 

"  Nobody  is  depending  on  me,"  he  told  Jessie,  as 
they  stood,  one  clear  December  afternoon,  watching 
the  bay  from  the  Battery  wall.  "  All  I  earn  belongs  to 
me  —  and  it  '11  be  yours,  if  you  '11  wait  for  me.  You  're 
the  first  girl  I  ever  asked,  and  I  '11  never  ask  another," 
he  added,  with  never  a  sign  on  the  surface,  to  suggest 
the  swift  current  of  subterranean  emotions.  Did  he 
think  that  the  way  to  win  Jessie's  heart  —  feeding  her 
upon  facts? 

"  But  I  ask  you,"  he  went  on,  prosaically ;  "  and  I 
ask  you  to  wait.  For  I  tell  you,  I  know  I  '11  be  well 
fixed  some  day."  And  he  held  up  his  right  arm,  the 
fist  clenched.  That  was  a  great  deal  for  Wedging  to 
do.  It  was  a  great  deal  for  him  to  say.  Unfortu- 
nately, Jessie  did  not  compare  him  with  former  Wedging- 
manifestations. 

[55] 


Something  Else 

"  Just  let  me  know  when  you  are,"  was  Jessie's  non- 
committal retort.  The  stocky  and  exceedingly  dark 
young  man  had  none  of  Irving's  grace,  or  good  looks. 
He  did  not  dress  so  well ;  and  he  had  never  spent  a  penny 
on  her  behalf.  Wedging's  parsimonious  precautions  to 
ensure  a  future  day  of  ease,  seemed  unattractive.  What 
a  waste  of  time  —  going  to  Wall  Street  and  Broad 
Street  every  weekday,  immediately  after  his  stingy 
luncheon  of  buttermilk  (two  cups)  and  bread-and-but- 
ter! How  uninteresting,  dawdling  about  brokers'  of- 
fices, or  in  the  visitors'  gallery  at  the  Exchange  —  only 
to  come  home  to  fill  many  foolscap-pages  with  the  fluctu- 
ating prices  of  stocks  and  bonds !  It  did  not  enrich 
Wedging,  nor  did  it  amuse  Jessie.  She  fancied  it  dis- 
contented him  with  his  daily  grind.  Moreover,  why  did 
he  pretend  to  care  for  her,  when  his  heart  and  brain  were 
given  to  railroad-bonds  of  jumbled  geographical  names? 
Three  hours  a  day  were  not  too  many  to  spend  on  Wall 
and  Broad  Streets,  yet  he  had  never  once  taken  her  to  a 
restaurant,  or  to  a  show.  Not  even  to  Moving  Pic- 
tures. Just  think  of  that ! 

"  Can't  you  give  me  a  little  hope  that  you  '11  wait  for 
me,"  said  Wedging,  "  just  to  make  the  game  seem  more 
worth  while?  There  's  no  use  talking  about  love  and  all 
that ;  but  of  course,  if  I  did  n't  love  you,  I  would  n't  be 
asking  to  devote  my  life  to  you."  (How  funny  she 
thought  him,  when  he  said  "  love  and  " —  as  if  any  con- 
junction, no  matter  how  scientifically  copulative,  could 
add  to  perfection!)  "  This  is  no  time  to  be  romantic  " 
(it  was  the  only  time  that  Jessie  cared  a  pin  for)  "  and 

[56] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

I  know  I'm  nothing"  (in  his  honest  effort  to  win  her, 
he  was  pretty  hard  on  himself),  "  but  the  time  '11  come 
—  you  '11  see  —  What  do  you  say,  Jess  ?  " 

"  I  'm  getting  cold,"  was  what  Jessie  said,  as  if  hunt- 
ing something  in  a  childish  game,  and  getting  farther 
from  it  all  the  time.  "  Ugh !  I  'm  freezing.  Don't  you 
hate  those  choppy  little  waves  out  there  in  winter? 
Let 's  go  back  to  the  old  woman's  — "  Thus  we  des- 
ignate Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  in  our  pride  of  youth.  "  Say, 
Mr.  Wedging,  Irving  Payne  gave  me  the  sweetest  little 
Christmas  present  I  ever  saw.  I  '11  show  it  to  you,  when 
we  get  back."  Cute?  It  certainly  was. 

"  He  's  got  nothing,  except  what  he  works  for,  day 
by  day,"  Wedging  growled.  "  I  'd  hate  to  work  like 
a  dog,  with  nothing  to  show  for  it.  But  if  I  save  up, 
remember  it 's  for  your  sake,  Jess.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

She  said  practically  nothing,  till  they  reached  Trinity 
Church;  there,  she  led  the  way  into  the  graveyard. 
His  gaze  instinctively  wandered  down  crooked  Wall 
Street,  and  her  heart  was  hardened.  "  Oh !  "  she  said, 
hypocritically,  as  she  bent  over  a  defaced  tombstone, 
"  I  was  mistaken  ...  I  thought  I  read  your  name 
on  it."  But  it  was  not  really  so  bad  as  all  that.  Wedg- 
ing's  hopes  seemed  dead;  but  they  had  not  yet  been 
buried. 

Wedging's  ideas  of  economy  were  not  those  of  Irving 
Payne.  It  was  Irving's  custom  to  save  as  carefully  as 
present  duty  and  pleasure  allowed,  save  to  the  sacrifice 
of  personal  comfort,  even  personal  needs  —  then  spend 
all  in  one  grand  pyrotechnical  display  of  joy.  About 

[57] 


Something  Else 

once  a  month,  one  might  find  him  in  the  marble  corridors 
of  those  hotels  in  which  people  of  wealth  are  seen  all 
the  time.  During  his  brief  evening  of  perihelion,  he 
rubbed  elbows  with  men  whose  names  are  heard  around 
the  world  —  possibly  without  the  firing  of  a  shot  for 
native  land  —  and  dined  in  the  same  room  with  women 
whose  diamonds,  horses,  and  divorces  furnished  breath- 
less reading  for  those  of  us  who  are  not  so  interesting. 

For  that  day  —  nay,  for  that  hour  —  no  one  was  more 
prodigal,  in  proportion  to  his  capital,  than  Irving.  His 
tips  to  the  waiters  changed  each  into  winged-heeled  Mer- 
curys;  his  critical  taste  was  that  of  a  born  gourmet; 
and,  at  the  theatre,  no  mediocre  talent  could  coax  his 
applause.  In  every  appointment  of  dress  he  was  im- 
maculate. He  held  Aladdin's  lamp  as  long  as  there 
was  a  dollar  in  his  pocket;  and  he  rubbed  it  without 
hesitation.  When  the  golden  night  was  fled,  gone  was 
Irving's  glory.  But  other  such  nights  were  to  be  an- 
ticipated ;  those  of  the  past  put  a  good  taste  in  memory's 
mouth,  and  the  threadbare  present  was  to  be  borne  with 
grim  philosophy. 

Hitherto,  these  upheavals  from  gray  obscurity  into 
the  phosphorescent  glare  of  bizarre  splendor  had  pos- 
sessed for  Irving  Payne  an  isolation  that  makes  even  a 
volcano  appear  lonesome.  His  glory  had  lighted  no 
sympathetic  eye.  Now,  he  was  to  have  a  companion. 
The  climax  of  New  Year's  Eve  was  almost  at  hand,  and 
Jessie  was  to  shine  by  his  side.  There  could  be  no  dark 
corner  in  all  the  Great  White  Way,  with  Jessie  by  his 
side. 

[58] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

Their  plans  were  laid  with  the  strategic  care  demanded 
by  economic  joy.  To  the  limit  of  his  all,  Irving' 
meant  that  they  two  should,  for  a  time,  take  their  places 
among  the  excessively  rich  and  the  perennially  idle. 
They  held  delighted  conferences  over  the  wisest  ways  of 
securing  the  most  folly  —  a  dollar  will  travel  many 
roads,  but  on  some  it  rolls  much  farther  than  on  others. 
Irving  half -believed  these  confidential  plottings  must  be 
as  enjoyable  as  the  possible  fruition.  Time  would  tell; 
but,  at  present,  Time  was  holding  his  tongue  —  for  Time 
has  little  to  say,  when  two  are  young,  together,  perhaps 
knowing  —  for  he  is  very  wise  —  that  neither  would 
listen. 

It  was  a  novel  experience  to  Irving,  to  tell  another  — 
and  such  another!  —  just  how  much  money  he  had  to 
burn  — "  spend  "  would  be  an  anachronism.  He  con- 
fided in  Jessie  as  if  she  had  been  —  what  shall  we  say  ?  — 
a  favorite  sister?  So  far,  no  word  of  love  had  compli- 
cated the  situation.  Therefore,  he  could  look  into  her 
black  eyes  as  often  as  he  wished,  without  forcing  a  blush 
from  their  depths.  Well,  let  us  see :  Every  week  he 
sends  ten  dollars  to  his  foster-parents  —  they  have  little 
to  do  in  this  history  besides  receiving  that  weekly  allow- 
ance —  and  his  room  comes  to  two  more,  his  meals  to 
five,  and  his  laundry  and  the  street-car  fares.  .  .  . 
Why  go  into  that?  But  think  of  making  these  confi- 
dences to  one  so  womanly,  yet  so  girlish;  so  rosy,  yet 
never  too  red;  so  plump,  so  round  —  that's  the  word, 
so  round  —  oh,  the  wonder  of  her !  His  watch  has  been 
pawned  — "  You  need  n't  be  afraid,  I  '11  get  it  back  — 

[59] 


Something  Else 

I  've  done  it  before ;  I  always  manage  to  redeem  it." 
He  who  is  so  young  and  strong  —  she  who  is  so  young 
and  round  —  surely  they  could  redeem  any  promise,  any 
hope,  any  ambition.  Is  happiness  an  old  miser  of  a 
pawnbroker? 

Here  they  sit,  on  the  night  before  the  Great  Night, 
intensely  alive  to  the  present,  while  speaking  of  the  fu- 
ture; borrowing  some  of  the  next  evening's  brilliancy 
to  warm  this  evening's  smiles.  They  are  in  an  Italian 
restaurant  that  promises  very  little  with  its  weather- 
beaten  front,  its  overshadowed  sidewalk,  its  small  win- 
dows. There  is  no  sign  as  of  "  The  Boar's  Head,"  or 
66  The  King's  Arms," —  of  course  not.  We  read  noth- 
ing on  the  sign  but  "  Pasquale's  " ;  that  shows  plainly 
enough,  for  each  letter  lights  up,  one  at  a  time  —  they 
seem  to  chase  each  other  across  the  wall  in  an  electric 
race.  That  is  the  exterior.  But  within  —  glasses  tin- 
kle, dishes  clink  together,  laughter  rises. 

Irving  and  Jessie  hear  everything,  see  everything. 
Now  comes  Chartier,  the  rather  celebrated  Chartier,  who 
conducts  a  French  restaurant ;  he  confers  with  Pasquale, 
his  Italian  rival.  Has  Pasquale  a  singer  he  could 
spare?  Chartier's  soloist  has  been  arrested  because  of 
—  But  none  of  us  are  perfect.  It  seems  that  these  men 
exchange  hostages  of  art,  like  generals  in  time  of  battle. 
Chartier,  the  Gaul,  finding  superfluous  Italians  on  his 
list,  sends  them  to  Italian  masters.  He  goes  away 
empty-handed,  however ;  Pasquale  has  no  French  talent 
to  spare. 

Jessie  whispers  to  Irving,  "  I  wonder  would  Monsieur 
[60] 


The  Jessie  Romance 

du  Pays  like  Chartier's  better  than  the  music-room  at 
the  store?" 

"  I  '11  ask  him,"  Irving  answers.  The  next  instant 
Monsieur  du  Pays  is  forgotten  —  all  is  forgotten  but 
New  Year's  Eve,  that  epoch  of  frenzied  delight.  All 
New  York  will  be  a  pandemonium  of  revelry  by  night, 
with  no  ears  for  any  warning  car  rattling  over  the  stony 
road  —  New  York !  And  — 

"  You  may  have  the  rest  of  the  world, 
But  give  me  New  York  for  mine. 
I  'd  swop  the  dough  of  Baltimo', 
And  all  the  wealth  of  Philadelph'— " 

And,  in  short,  all  civic  splendor  — 

"  For  a  little  bit  of  Broadway." 

Together  they  chant  the  lines  in  that  dingy  Italian 
restaurant  off  Washington  Square,  after  their  spaghetti, 
siroppo,  and  black  coffee  —  chant  while  their  feet  beat 
time  on  the  sanded  floor,  and  their  eyes  turn  from  the 
cheap  print  of  Garibaldi  hanging  in  the  place  of  honor, 
to  smile  into  each  other's  glowing  face. 


[61] 


CHAPTER  IV 

RICH  —  FOR   ONE   HOUR 

THE  cab  is  at  the  door  —  what  magic  brought 
this  shiny-black,  star-eyed  carriage  to  quiet 
"  Lee's  Triangle  "  for  our  Cinderella?  Into  it 
climbs  one  of  the  most  wonderful  creatures  in  all  the  city, 
namely  a  Cinderella  who,  thanks  to  her  surplus  of  $1.30 
a  week,  has  contrived  to  play  her  own  fairy  godmother. 
Never  mind  the  unheard-of  sacrifices,  the  starvings,  the 
cold  hours  in  the  skylight-room.  Never  mind  the  pinch- 
ing that  must  follow  this  night  of  Jessie's  reign.  For 
she  does  not  mind  in  the  least,  just  now.  Then,  why 
should  we? 

After  her  —  very  close,  indeed  —  comes  Irving  Payne 
in  his  silk  hat,  his  Chesterfield  overcoat,  his  silk-faced 
dresscoat,  his  white  drill  single-breasted  waistcoat,  his 
white  tie,  his  white  deerskin  gloves,  his  moonstone  studs 
and  links,  his  patent-leather  buttoned  tops  and  —  if  one 
could  see  to  the  very  skin  of  him  —  everything  a  gen- 
tleman should  wear,  and  nothing  that  a  gentleman 
shouldn't.  We  stand  almost  in  awe  of  our  hero. 
Whence  this  apparel  of  rich  simplicity?  Heavens!  do 
not  inquire  of  us.  It  is  on  his  back,  at  any  rate. 

"  I  wonder,  shall  we  have  trouble  to  find  places  for 
our  dinner?  "  says  Jessie,  with  the  distinguished  languor 

[62] 


Rich— For  One  Hour 

of  one  who  appears  weary  of  filets  de  sole,  marquise  and 
G.  H.  Mumm,  extra  dry.  She  was  dressed.  .  .  . 
But  no,  spare  us ! 

"Trouble?  I  should  think!"  Irving  interjects, 
laughing.  Leaning  back  in  pleasurable  excitement  — 
the  horses  are  now  clacking  down  the  street  —  he  tells 
her  "  the  latest."  There  's  no  use  to  go  to  Murray's, 
unless  you  engaged  a  chair  weeks  ago.  At  Shanley's, 
the  reserved  seats,  that  is  to  say,  every  seat,  has  been  sold 
at  five  dollars.  It 's  the  same  story  at  Martin's.  At 
Rector's  ?  Listen !  Twenty-five  dollars  for  two.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  "  Did  you  ever !  "  (This  from 
Jessie. )  And  mind  you,  that 's  merely  for  the  right  to 
sit  down.  The  real  expense  is  later. 

"  But,  Irving,  the  big  hotels  —  ?  " 

"  Same  thing,"  says  Irving,  jubilant  over  difficulties. 
"  At  Delmonico's,  at  Sherry's,  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria 
and  the  like,  they  haven't  charged  in  advance.  But 
really,  it  '11  be  just  as  hard  to  get  into  any  of  'em.  I  've 
known  fellows  —  I  mean  fellows  with  the  unlimited  — 
turned  away,  hotel  after  hotel.  It  was  that  way  last 
year." 

"  Then  what  will  we  do?  "  asks  Jessie,  with  a  delicious 
shiver  of  alarm. 

"  You  wait,"  says  Irving,  who  knows  no  more  than 
she,  what  will  happen.  "  I  always  trust  to  luck." 

It  was  early,  but  already  the  streets  were  filled  with 
the  holiday  throngs.  The  noise  had  not  commenced, 
but  every  man,  woman,  and  child  to  be  seen  on  the  side- 
walks showed  themselves  provided  with  fruits  of  the 

[68] 


Something  Else 

afternoon  curb  sales  —  cowbells,  tin  horns,  squeaking 
balloons,  rattles,  iron  mocking  birds,  and  everything  else 
small  enough  to  be  carried,  and  loud  enough  to  be  heard 
above  horses'  hoofs.  Another  evidence  of  the  approach- 
ing Saturnalia  was  furnished  by  the  show-windows; 
they  were  boarded  up  from  ground  to  topsash.  Miles 
of  pine  boards  protected  plate  glass,  all  the  way  from 
Trinity  Church  to  Fourteenth  Street.  Apparently,  the 
Old  Year  was  expected  to  die  hard. 

The  cab  stopped  before  one  of  New  York's  most 
splendid  hotels.  Irving  was  amazed  to  be  graciously 
received ;  he  and  his  lady  had  been  expected,  it  seemed  — 
not  only  so,  but  wonder  was  expressed  that  "  the  others  " 
had  not  come. 

"  Are  the  others  coming  later?  "  inquired  the  head- 
waiter,  who  guarded  the  street  door  as  jealously  as  a 
sentinel  listening  for  the  password.  At  his  nod, 
princes  of  fortune  were  admitted;  at  the  shake  of  his 
head  —  always  accompanied  by  a  regretful  and  respect- 
ful smile  —  other  princes  were  solemnly  assured  that 
"  every  place  was  occupied."  As  for  the  wandering 
canaille,  they  were  thrust  out,  to  a  man,  into  the  outer 
brightness  of  Broadway,  which,  to  them,  was  the  same 
as  outer  darkness. 

"  The  others  will,  no  doubt,  come  later,"  said  Irving 
gravely  —  outwardly,  his  gravity  was  almost  sombre. 
Of  course  he  had  been  taken  for  some  one  else  —  that  was 
temporarily  fortunate. 

"  Will  you  wait  for  the  others?  "  inquired  the  sover- 
eign of  the  dining-room. 

[64] 


Rich — For  One  Hour 

"  We  will  wait  at  the  table,"  said  Irving.  "  You  need 
not  bring  us  anything  yet." 

When  they  were  relieved  of  the  dread  presence,  Irving 
looked  at  Jessie.  "  It 's  a  gold  brick,"  he  observed. 
"  I  wonder  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  I  thought  we  were  the  whole  thing,"  laughed  Jessie. 
"  It  seems  there  are  others."  They  laughed  together, 
delighted  with  their  adventure.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
just  come  to  court,  riding  up  to  the  castle  out  of  some 
good  old  romance  of  olden  time. 

There  was  much  to  be  seen  in  the  way  of  beauty  and 
bounty,  and,  after  all,  they  had  come  to  see,  rather  than 
to  eat.  They  enjoyed  the  prestige  of  lolling  grace- 
fully in  their  coveted  chairs,  as  to  expression,  conscien- 
tiously blase,  while  tardy  arrivals  envied  them  their  good 
fortune.  They  won  the  errant  glances  of  little  parties 
seated  at  their  bef ore-theatre  dinners.  Irving  was  de- 
lighted to  observe  that  Jessie  could  hold  her  own  —  or, 
to  speak  precisely,  could  hold  the  manner  and  air  of  an 
upper  world.  For  to-night  —  just  for  to-night  —  he 
made  one  in  this  company  of  wealth  and  ease.  He  was 
a  prince,  dining  in  his  own  palace,  and  that  young 
fellow  who  habitually  held  his  nose  to  his  typewriter 
eight  hours  a  day,  in  some  remote  frontier  of  the  sky- 
scraping  world  —  he  was  not,  since  his  only  existence 
was  in  Irving's  consciousness. 

As  they  chatted  incessantly,  Jessie's  studied  grace  lent 
lustre  to  his  princely  state.  So  perfect  was  her  pretence 
of  being  used  to  it,  that  no  artificiality  outcropped ;  the 
very  fact  that  she  was  a  novice  kept  from  her  face  that 

[65] 


Something  Else 

hardness,  and  from  her  eyes  that  level  insolence,  that 
comes  from  —  what  shall  we  say  ?  —  from  too  much  of 
it.  To  Irving  and  Jessie  this  was  but  a  play  in  which 
they  acted,  a  one-night's  performance  only.  The  be- 
diamonded  ladies  whose  gleaming  shoulders  and  clouds 
of  lace  showed  in  long  vistas  down  the  regal  banqueting- 
hall,  little  did  they  think  that  our  friends  were  mere 
pretenders,  taking  artistic  delight  in  their  disguises. 
Alas !  they  did  not  think  of  them  at  all. 

"  Here  comes  old  Waxworks,"  whispered  Jessie,  re- 
ferring thus  disrespectfully  to  the  head  waiter.  That 
tall,  immaculately  dressed  personage  did,  indeed,  come, 
his  austere  face  drawn  in  a  many-creased  mask  of  stern 
reproach.  "  And,  oh,  look !  immediately  behind  him  are 
two  couples,  advancing  in  a  straight  line.  They  are, 
without  doubt  « the  others.'  What  shall  we  do?  " 

Irving  looked  up  with  seeming  calmness.  "  We  have 
waited  for  you,"  he  volunteered. 

The  young  man  who  was  in  the  lead,  responded 
coolly,  "  Many  thanks."  He  hardly  looked  at  Irving, 
because  Jessie  had  caught  his  eye  —  a  handsome  gray 
eye,  it  was,  much  like  Irving's.  His  face  seemed  to  have 
come  out  of  a  popular  novel,  popularly  illustrated.  It 
was  much  like  Irving's  also. 

The  master  of  the  feast  waved  his  hand  accusingly 
at  Irving,  as  he  said  to  the  newcomer,  apologetically, 
"  I  took  him  for  you,  sir." 

The  newcomer  then  looked  hard  at  Irving.  The  re- 
semblance between  them  was  rather  striking.  Jessie  no- 
ticed it  at  once;  so  did  the  two  girls  of  the  party.  It 

[66] 


Rich— For  One  Hour 

reminded  Irving  of  looking  at  himself  in  the  glass.  He 
laughed  at  the  fantasy,  and  something  in  his  rueful 
merriment  caused  instant  response.  Potential  liking 
hovered  in  the  air. 

The  girl  who  had  come  with  the  leader  of  the  party 
asked,  in  an  amused  drawl,  "Who  am  I  with?  The 
gentleman  who  says  he  is  waiting  for  us,  looks  more  like 
you  than  you  do  yourself." 

The  chief  dignitary  turned  upon  Irving.  "  I  must 
ask  you  and  your  lady  to  give  up  your  seats,"  he  said. 

Irving,  who  had  already  risen  said,  "  I  will  not  re- 
treat. I  throw  myself  upon  the  mercy  of  the  enemy." 

"  You  are  saved,"  said  the  stranger.  "  We  lost  a 
couple  on  our  way  here ;  fortunately  they  fell  into  the 
Bronx.  You  shall  fill  up  the  breach." 

All  seated  themselves,  gayly.  The  adventure  was  as 
preposterously  funny  to  the  strangers  as  it  was  charm- 
ing to  our  friends.  There  were  no  formal  introduc- 
tions ;  they  had  fraternized  in  the  midst  of  life's  battle, 
presently  to  go  each  his  way.  Never  again  after  to- 
night would  these  six  sit  down  together  —  so  much  the 
better,  perhaps.  But,  for  the  hour,  how  joyous  they 
were !  Joy  was  everywhere ;  laughter  leaped,  like  flame, 
from  table  to  table :  for  was  not  this  the  last  night  of  the 
Old  Year  and  the  first  night  of  the  New? 

The  young  man  who  looked  like  Irving,  looked  so  like 
him  that  he  need  not  be  particularly  described.  One 
cannot  use  the  same  economy  in  terms  on  the  other 
young  man ;  but,  fortunately,  he  is  not  important  to  our 
purpose;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  had  recently  come 

[67] 


Something  Else 

out  of  the  West,  bringing  some  of  it  with  him.  His 
companion  was  Stella.  She  and  Beauty  were  chorus- 
girls,  overdressed,  it  is  true,  but  their  natures  were  so 
disproportioned  from  the  exaggerations  of  certain 
traits  and  the  minimizing  of  what  conventionality  holds 
dear,  that  they  might  have  seemed  more  artificial  in 
simpler  attire. 

The  girls  were  chums,  that  was  plain.  A  marvellous 
understanding  ran  like  a  private  telephone  line  from 
one  heart  to  the  other.  Who  would  have  thought  to 
hear  their  sallies,  honoring  each  other's  jests  rather  than 
exacting  honor  for  one's  own  —  rare  friendship,  in- 
deed !  —  who  would  have  thought  them  living  on 
eighteen  dollars  a  week  when  the  show  was  "  on,"  and, 
out  of  this  salary,  each  paying  for  her  two  pairs  of 
shoes,  stockings,  tights  —  everything,  you  understand, 
and  living  on  nothing  when  the  show  was  "  off." 

No  one  could  have  known  these  things,  for  these 
things  no  longer  obtain.  Irving  is  no  railroad  clerk,  to- 
night; Jessie  is  not  a  shopgirl;  Beauty  and  Stella  are 
not  danseuses  —  there  are  no  such  parts  in  to-night's 
play.  Every  one  is  a  star  on  New  Year's  Eve. 

There  was  something  about  Irving's  frank  enjoy- 
ment of  everything  that  warmed  the  heart  of  the 
young  man  who  resembled  him ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing about  Jessie  that  kept  him  from  often  looking  at 
Irving.  When  all  was  said,  Irving  was  a  man. 
"  Lady," —  the  stranger  addressed  Irving's  compan- 
ion, "  I  have  at  last  met  my  Waterloo." 

"  Have  you  ?  "  said  Jessie,  very  much  at  sea. 
[68] 


Rich — For  One  Hour 

Irving  tacked  to  her  rescue.  "  Are  you  Napoleon, 
or  Wellington  ?  "  he  inquired,  his  tone  suggesting  that 
he  had  mapped  out  the  Emperor's  part  for  his  own.  In 
truth,  the  other's  admiration  gave  Irving  a  pang,  not  so 
much  because  it  was  obvious,  but  because  Jessie  seemed 
to  find  it  grateful. 

"  I  am  the  Duke,"  the  stranger  retorted. 

Irving  laughed  in  his  eyes  —  he  could  n't  help  liking 
him ;  but  he  answered  warningly,  "  In  that  case,  this  is 
not  your  Waterloo." 

Nothing  could  save  Jessie  at  this  moment,  for  she 
placed  her  own  hand  upon  the  rudder.  "  Oh,"  she 
cried,  tossing  her  head,  "  I  ain't  a  teetotaller."  There 
was  a  hilarious  burst  of  laughter.  Jessie  was  by  no 
means  an  ignorant  girl;  in  truth  she  knew  an  incredible 
amount  of  facts,  but  all  of  them  were  dated  nineteen- 
hundred-and-blank. 

After  that,  Jessie  was  called  Water  Lulu,  while  he 
who  admired  her  was  impartially  hailed  as  Duke,  Nap 
or  even  Welly.  Irving  Payne  was  metamorphosed  into 
Knickerbocker,  and  Bird  Martin,  the  sun-burned  West- 
erner, was  simply  "  Colorado." 

Jessie  soon  forgot  her  confusion,  and  wisely  grew 
taciturn.  But  she  was  as  full  of  laughter  as  a  quiver- 
ing sunbeam.  When  her  curved  red  mouth  closed,  her 
eyes  laughed;  and  when  she  laughed  with  her  lips,  by 
drawing  back  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  the  flash  of 
her  even  teeth  was  irresistible.  Something  in  the  dis- 
tinguished admiration  of  the  Duke  seemed  to  animate 
her  with  tingling  life.  As  for  Beauty  and  Stella,  they 

[69] 


Something  Else 

seldom  laughed  out,  but,  at  times,  spoke  in  loud  tones,  as 
if,  by  force  of  voice,  they  would  achieve  the  purpose  of 
laughter. 

"  But  after  all,"  said  the  young  man  who  resembled 
Irving,  speaking  near  the  close  of  their  repast,  "  there 
ought  to  be  some  sort  of  explanations,  you  know. 
Really  I  am  not  the  Duke,  though  I  look  it.  Martin 
never  lived  in  Colorado  —  he  came  from  Kansas,  wher- 
ever that  is.  He  wants  to  break  into  society,  but  he 
keeps  breaking  out  in  such  unexpected  spots  — " 

Bird  Martin  grinned  at  Irving.  "  It 's  hard,"  he 
allowed,  with  exaggerated  humility. 

"  Now  just  leave  Colorado  alone,"  cried  Beauty,  in 
her  loud  tones,  "  I  'm  developing  him  very  nicely." 

The  young  man  resumed :  "  And  my  name  is  Van- 
dever." 

"  I  've  heard  the  name,  somewhere,"  murmured  Irving. 
It  instantly  recalled  the  beautiful  face,  so  full  of  mel- 
ancholy, that  had  chained  his  attention  in  the  Court 
House.  Could  this  be  the  son  of  the  Mrs.  J.  S.  Van- 
dever  of  Fifth  Avenue  prestige?  That  was  conceiv- 
able. But,  in  that  case,  he  must  also  be  the  son  of  that 
degenerate,  that  pencil-peddling  mendicant,  of  the  East 
Side.  It  seemed  an  insult  to  ascribe  to  this  gay,  cul- 
tured young  man,  a  father  so  disreputable.  And  yet 
—  that  tramp  had  once  been  the  husband  of  this  stran- 
ger's mother  —  if  his  mother  was  Mrs.  J.  S.  Vandever. 
Irving  sought  to  show  no  change  of  countenance. 

"  Well,"  smiled  Vandever,  "  and  I  've  heard  of  you, 
[70] 


Rich — For  One  Hour 

too,  Knickerbocker.  That  book  of  yours  —  what  did 
you  call  it?— 'History  of  New  York?'  Yes? 
Humph!  Part  of  it  was  mildly  amusing.  But  don't 
dramatize  it ;  the  public  wants  something  different.  By 
the  way,  did  you  write  about  New  York  before  you 
visited  Manhattan  ?  That 's  the  rule,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  I  've  been  here  before,"  said  Irving,  with  his 
boyish  laugh.  "  I  know  the  Flatiron  from  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty." 

"  Silly !  "  said  Jessie,  reproving  her  companion  with 
a  grimace.  Just  as  if  everybody  did  n't  know  that  the 
Flatiron  was  not  standing  out  in  the  water!  Irving 
could  say  some  really  bright  things,  sometimes,  she  re- 
flected. 

Vandever  drank  in  the  charm  of  the  provoked  Jessie. 
She  found  his  deep  eyes  revivifying.  To  her,  he  stood 
as  a  type  of  chivalrous  wealth.  His  reckless  spending 
moved  her  to  something  like  contemptuous  pity  for 
Irving's  limited  prodigality.  And  Vandever  was  as 
handsome  as  Irving.  And,  to  the  shopgirl,  he  seemed 
so  much  more  a  man,  in  proportion  to  his  fortune. 
Like  Irving,  like  everybody,  she  had  heard  of  the  Van- 
devers ;  and  here  sat  the  heir  to  many  millions,  looking 
into  her  face  with  glowing  eyes.  The  standard  of 
Jessie's  favor  deserted  Irving  for  Vandever,  just  as  it 
had  formally  gone  over  from  Wedging  to  Irving. 

She  reflected  that,  by  a  word,  by  merely  keeping 
silent,  Vandever  could  have  cast  Irving  into  the  street. 
What  consideration  he  had  shown  I  Such  heart!  As 

[71] 


Something  Else 

the  talk  flew  back  and  forth,  she  did  not  seek  to  catch 
the  bright  interweaving  threads;  but  when  Vandever 
spoke,  her  curved  mouth  responded  unconsciously  in 
little  tell-tale  dashes  and  dots  of  telegraphic  motion. 
She  feared  her  uttered  words  must  proclaim  the  hand- 
kerchief counter;  she  scarcely  ate,  lest  her  movements 
betray  the  atmosphere  of  cheap  eating-houses.  But 
she  possessed  a  certain  quality  that  lends  grace  to  almost 
any  setting,  a  quaint  shyness  that  is  restful  to  eyes  the 
most  cynical. 

Vandever  consulted  his  watch.  "  Now  for  the  show !  " 
he  cried.  He  turned  to  Irving  with  hearty  insistence: 
"  Do  come  with  us,  Knickerbocker,  you  are  a  part  of 
ourselves,  to-night.  Don't  spoil  such  a  fine  beginning 
by  selfishly  mouching  off  by  yourself — " 

Jessie  looked  appealingly  at  Irving,  but  Irving  had 
already  bought  their  tickets. 

"  That 's  nothing,"  cried  Colorado ;  "  I  have  a  box 
for  the  season.  I  can't  give  you  as  much  room  as  we 
have  out  West,  but  I  insist  that  you  fill  up  what  we 
have." 

"  Oh,  out  West ! "  cried  Beauty,  reprovingly. 
"Where's  that?" 

Stella  exclaimed,  "  Who  cares  for  any  other  part  of 
the  world  — "  And  she  began  to  sing,  in  the  showgirl's 
sterilized  voice  — 

— "  Give  me  New  York  for  mine. 
I  'd  swop  the  dough  of  Baltimo'— " 

Beauty  sang  forth  the  next  line, 

"  And  all  the  wealth  of  Philadelph'— " 

[72] 


Rich— For  One  Hour 

"  Come  on,  Jessie !  "  exclaimed  Irving,  "  you  're  there 
with  the  goods,  on  this  song."  And  they  mixed  up  the 
lines  thus  — 

"  And  all  the  fat  of  old  San  Fran', 
And  all  the  can  of  Cincinnati — " 

Then  everybody  shouted  lustily, 

"  For  a  little  bit  of  Broadway." 

Then  Colorado,  thinking  the  others  were  with  him, 
brayed  forth,  "  New  York !  " 

"  You  must  say  6  New  Yark,'  "  Beauty  reproved  him. 
She  continued  severely,  in  her  capacity  as  society- 
trainer  :  "  The  worst  kind  of  a  give-away  is  to  do  a 
thing  right,  when  it 's  right  to  do  it  wrong." 

Singing  in  the  palatial  banqueting-hall ?  Why  not? 
You  could  scarcely  hear  a  locomotive  whistle.  What  a 
din,  as  they  emerge  upon  Broadway!  Is  there  a  dis- 
cordant note  capable  of  being  snared,  that  is  not  poured 
forth  from  the  green  and  crimson  horns?  They 
squeak,  they  bellow,  they  rumble,  they  trill,  they  blare. 
Thanks  to  .Vandever's  resolution  and  Jessie's  sad  treach- 
ery, those  two  go  off  in  one  cab ;  Beauty  falls  to  Irving's 
share.  It  is  only  until  they  reach  the  theatre  —  still, 
Irving  did  not  want  to  be  Beauty's  Beast.  Had  he  not 
witnessed  the  charming  naivete  of  Jessie?  He,  as  well 
as  Vandever,  had  found  it  restful  to  the  eye ;  he  as  well 
as  Vandever,  had  been  impressed  by  the  difference  be- 
tween Jessie  and  the  chorus  girls.  Thus  they  are  mis- 
mated,  however,  thus  they  slowly  progress  through  a 
storm  —  a  hurricane  of  confetti. 

[73] 


Something  Else 

The  horses  can  hardly  make  their  way  through  the 
dense  crowds  that  no  sidewalks  can  contain.  Thou- 
sands of  laughing  voices  beat  upon  one's  ear.  The 
huge  city  is  seeking,  for  one  night,  to  express  its  power 
in  audible  guise.  It  is  hard  to  find  full  expression,  yet 
horns,  ticklers,  and  shouts  can  do  much.  If  one  have 
no  great  wealth,  he  may  at  least  spend  all  he  has,  appear- 
ing rich  to  the  rich  —  who  do  not  care  how  you  appear, 
more 's  the  pity !  But,  best  of  all,  consider  Irving 
Payne,  who  will  soon  be  with  Jessie,  after  all ;  as  far  as 
his  money  goes,  he  travels  with  kings  of  finance.  That 
splendid  cab  is  no  hired  vehicle  —  it  belongs  to  him,  to 
the  bottom  of  his  purse,  if  he  so  desire ;  and  as  long  as 
he  can  pay  for  the  seat  he  owns  the  very  horses,  the 
very  driver,  the  driver's  very  soul. 

To  be  a  part  of  such  life  —  that  is  Irving's  reward 
for  all  privations,  past  and  future  —  a  part  of  the  noise, 
the  laughter,  the  city's  song.  Of  course  it  is  supposable 
—  one  may  suppose  anything  —  that  some  railroad 
clerks,  some  shopgirls,  some  chorus  girls  are  hiding  in 
humble  lodgings  during  this  more  than  Mardi  Gras,  this 
more  than  Roman  Carnival, —  are  burrowing  in  obscure 
garrets  to  let  their  earnings  accumulate.  Is  not  Wedg- 
ing doing  so  at  this  very  moment?  —  fun-lacking, 
drudge-hardened  Wedging,  the  lover!  And  see,  now, 
how  far  he  is  from  his  lady's  heart !  Not  to  be  a  part  of 
it  —  well!  —  what's  the  use  to  live  in  the  city?  If 
one  cannot  mingle  in  the  city-life,  one  might  as  well  be 
in  —  no  matter  —  are  not  all  deserts  alike? 

Here  they  go,  then,  Beauty  throwing  confetti  from 
[74] 


Rich— For  One  Hour 

lowered  carriage-window,  sometimes  swaying  back 
against  Irving's  shoulder  —  and  Irving  never  putting 
forth  his  arm  to  catch  the  supple  form.  He  might  do 
so  a  hundred  times.  When  the  blinding  light  of  this 
brightest  and  longest  street  in  all  the  world,  paints  her 
young-old  face  as  with  radiant  sunshine,  and  a  sudden 
lurch  turns  up  her  lips  toward  his,  then  he  might,  with- 
out exertion,  or  offence  —  but  he  never  does ;  not  that 
he  intends  to  be  a  priest,  or  is  blind  to  the  languorous 
charms  of  Beauty.  But,  to  save  himself,  he  can't  help 
thinking  of  Jessie  with  Vandever  the  Handsome,  Van- 
dever  the  Bold,  and  —  heavens !  let  us  hope  Vandever 
will  play  fair! 

They  meet  in  Bird  Martin's  box.  It  seems  to  Irving 
that  it  is  a  long,  long  time  —  months  —  since  he  and 
Jessie  sat  down  together,  to  discuss  spaghetti  and 
siroppo  and  black  coffee,  under  the  patriotic  eye  of 
Garibaldi.  Is  the  realization  as  pleasant  to  the  taste, 
as  was  that  black  coffee  of  Pasquale  —  Pasquale  whose 
sign  reads  simply  "  Pasquale's,"  as  if  the  thousand  other 
Pasquales  of  the  city  were  not?  Jessie  seems  to  think 
so.  Will  you  look?  —  that  rascal  of  a  Vandever  is 
holding  her  hand ! 


[75] 


CHAPTER  V 

A  NIGHT   OF   LOVE 

^T  "IT  'T'HEN  the  six  young  people  are  finally  set- 
% /%  /  tied  in  the  box,  the  play  is  half  ended. 
y  Y  That  does  n't  matter,  since  the  plot  has  no 
consistency,  unless  it  be  that  of  always  appearing  at 
odds  with  itself,  in  trying  to  make  the  impossible  epi- 
sodes seem  connected.  But  it  is  not  the  play  on  the 
stage,  it  is  the  play  facing  the  stage,  that  really  counts. 
Irving' s  eyes  sweep  the  "  diamond  zone  "  of  which  he 
finds  himself,  for  once,  an  integral  gem;  they  suddenly 
halt;  they  have  found  a  face  looking  across  the  wide 
gulf,  and  the  face  is  unmistakably  turned  toward  him. 
It  is  a  face  —  he  would  have  said,  it  is  the  face  —  of 
distinguished  dignity  and  profound  melancholy.  From 
beneath  the  glorious  jewels  in  the  black  hair,  eyes  of  a 
softer  and  more  moving  glory,  seem  gazing  at  his  youth 
out  of  the  mellow  mist  of  the  Indian  summer  of  middle- 
age.  Her  eyes,  finding  themselves  discovered,  turn 
away  to  look  at  the  young  man  no  more;  but  the  one 
look  has  caused  his  head  to  whirl  with  half-etched  emo- 
tions. The  court-room  unfolds  around  him ;  at  his  side 
trembles  the  tramp  who  often  haunts  his  memory ;  and 
the  face  in  yonder  opera-box,  that  is  the  striking  face 

[76] 


A  Night  of  Love 

that  lends  pathetic  mystery  to  his  reproduction  of  the 
divorce  court. 

A  shudder  crept  over  Irving's  form.  Turning  ab- 
ruptly to  his  new-found  friend,  he  asked,  "  Are  you 
related  to  the  Mrs.  Vandever  in  that  box?  "  He  awaited 
the  answer  almost  breathlessly,  hoping  for  a  negative. 
A  negative  would  make  short  work  of  the  tramp  night- 
mare. 

"  Rather,"  young  Vandever  answered,  bending  over 
Jessie's  hand.  He  held  her  hand  closely.  He  was  in- 
terested in  her  rings,  perhaps. 

Beauty  observed.  "Is  that  our  cue?"  she  asked. 
"  Must  we  come  on  ?  "  And  she  held  out  her  hand  that 
Bird  Martin  might  hold  it. 

"  Jessie ! "  Irving  exclaimed,  impatiently,  even  an- 
grily, as  he  found  that  she  did  not  draw  away.  A  hot 
flush  mounted  to  his  brow. 

"  Don't  worry  about  Water  Lulu,"  said  Stella  gra- 
ciously. "  I  '11  hold  your  hand  if  you  feel  lonesome. 
You  don't  seem  very  humorous,  do  you,  Knicker- 
bocker? " 

Irving,  with  an  effort,  swallowed  his  resentment.  "  I 
don't  know  how  I  ever  thought  of  all  those  funny  things 
in  my  History  of  New  York,"  he  said,  absently.  His 
eyes  had  again  wandered  to  the  opposite  arc  of  the  box- 
zone.  Mrs.  Vandever  was  apparently  some  twenty  years 
younger  than  this  white-haired  second  husband  —  she 
must  be  almost  the  same  age  as  the  tramp.  How  unlike 
either,  she  looked !  As  for  the  tramp,  doubtless  the  life 
of  a  degenerate  had  given  him  that  loose,  shiftless,  good- 

[77] 


Something  Else 

natured  air,  which  seemed  by  no  means  all  bad,  yet 
lacked  any  definite  element  of  good.  As  to  the  second 
husband,  this  J.  S.  Vandever  of  vast  enterprises  and 
corresponding  influence,  his  stern  and  sharply  cut  face 
seemed  to  defy  the  white  gantlet  that  time  had  thrown 
upon  his  head.  The  face  of  Mrs.  Vandever  was 
moulded  for  the  play  of  sensibility ;  in  contrast  with 
the  man  of  steel  nerves  by  her  side,  she  impressed 
one  with  her  throbbing  and  resolutely  restrained  woman- 
hood. 

"  That  lady  in  the  box,"  Martin  volunteered,  "  is  the 
Duke's  mother.  The  gentleman  with  her  is  the  great 
J.  S.  And  they  have  a  daughter  that  I  wish  was  with 
them,  for  the  sight  of  her  is  worth  — " 

"  I  wish,"  Vandever  interrupted,  coloring,  "  that 
you  'd  keep  my  sister  out  of  this,  Colorado." 

"  Colorado,"  said  Stella,  seeking  to  speak  lightly, 
and  not  altogether  succeeding,  "  you  talk  too  much."  A 
discordant  note  had  jarred  the  harmony  of  their  too- 
light  comedy, —  a  sombre  warning,  coming  from  below 
the  surface  of  things  —  a  premonitory  Wagnerian 
blast,  hurled  into  the  rippling  shallows  that  flow  toward 
tragedy.  Stella  and  Beauty  look  neither  at  Vandever 
nor  at  each  other,  but  each  glowing  cheek  seems  to  have 
been  splashed  suddenly  by  a  grayish  streak  of  care. 
And  so  —  Vandever's  sister  must  not  be  mentioned  in 
our  presence.  Are  not  we  beautiful  also  ? 

Stella  seeks  relief  in  her  native  element.  "  Frazzle 
will  never  make  good,"  she  remarks,  directing  Beauty's 
attention  to  the  ballet.  "  Her  dancing  's  too  conserva- 

[78] 


A  Night  of  Love 

tive."  Stella  and  Beauty  are  oddly  drawn  together  at 
this  moment. 

"  She  's  got  to  be  conservative,"  Beauty  answers,  pro- 
fessionally ;  "  hers  are  mere  shadows  of  mine,  or  yours." 

"  Shall  we  change  the  subject?  "  Vandever  suggests, 
feeling  Jessie's  hand  about  to  elude  him. 

Jessie  rashly  steps  into  the  place  of  the  fallen. 
"  That  disorganized  mob  we  passed  through,  to  get 
here,"  she  says,  in  her  Sunday-afternoon  voice,  a  voice 
too  correct,  too  distinct,  alas !  — "  is  the  worst  I  have 
ever  saw." 

Jessie  seems  lost,  but  Irving,  ignoring  affronts,  gal- 
lantly covers  her  retreat  with,  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  " — 
tone  absolutely  natural,  and  sincere  — "  I  saw  it  that 
bad  last  year." 

Vandever,  conscious  of  the  enemy's  weakness,  forbears 
to  fire  a  single  shot. 

Down  goes  the  final  curtain.  "  Now !  "  Irving  ex- 
claims, with  vast  relief,  "  the  play  will  begin."  He 
would  have  been  quite  intoxicated  by  the  brilliant  scene, 
but  for  Jessie's  hand  in  Vandever's.  Why  did  he  want 
to  hold  her  hand?  Why  did  she  let  him?  In  all  their 
adventures  through  dingy  streets  and  into  shaded  res- 
taurants, Irving  had  never  held  her  hand  so  long.  Nor 
had  Jessie  ever  looked  at  him,  as  now  she  looked  at 
Vandever.  He  experienced  a  sense  of  pain,  to  be  un- 
derstood by  any  one  who  has  not  forgotten  his  youth  — 
a  half-deadened  twinge  that  was  not  without  sweetness. 
To  feel  injured  by  one  as  pretty  as  Jessie  is,  in  itself, 
a  romance  when  one  is  young  —  for  the  note  of  youth 

[79] 


Something  Else 

must  be  insisted  upon  as  the  motif  in  this  life-overture. 
It  yielded  Irving  anticipations  of  a  delicious  quarrel, 
perhaps  on  their  homeward  ride.  Love  feeds  —  we  do 
not  say  it  fattens  —  on  misunderstandings. 

All  were  standing,  hovering  at  the  front  of  the  box, 
like  pigeons  ready  for  flight.  Says  Jessie  to  Irving, 
with  determined  loyalty,  "  I  will  ride  back  to  the  hotel 
with  you." 

He  has  never  seen  her  face  so  bright,  her  eyes  so 
liquid,  her  form  so  inexpressibly  rounded,  has  never  felt 
so  subtly  the  perfume  of  her  being.  To  return  with 
her  to  the  banqueting-hall  seems  preferable  to  all  other 
attainable  delights.  But  he  answers  quietly. 

"Why  not  return  as  we  came?"  He  cared  that 
much,  at  all  events.  And  one  must  care  a  good  deal 
deliberately  to  thrust  deeper  into  one's  breast  the 
weapon  that  another  has  but  lightly  wielded.  They  go 
as  they  came,  therefore,  rolling  through  the  tumultuous 
street,  breasting  the  deafening  breakers  of  sound  which 
have  been  intensified  a  hundred-fold.  Oh,  the  merriment 
of  the  thousands !  How  happy  are  they,  because,  the 
poor  Old  Year  lies  a-dying! 

"  Home  again !  "  Vandever  exclaims  with  his  joyous, 
sunny  smile;  they  seat  themselves  at  the  table  that  wit- 
nessed the  formation  of  their  acquaintanceship.  Is  it 
possible  that,  but  a  few  hours  before,  Vandever  and 
Jessie  had  never  met?  Irving  does  n't  count.  Their 
flushed  smiles  and  little-knowing  looks,,, —  we  do  not 
speak  of  Irving's  ;  he  had  nothing  to  look  knowing  about 
—  the  smiles,  we  say,  of  Vandever  and  Jessie,  showed 

[80] 


A  Night  of  Love 

that  they  had  been  getting  on  capitally.  As  the  night 
wears  on,  faces  grow  rosier,  voices  merrier ;  those  who 
have  never  met  speak  to  each  other,  breaking  through 
the  palisades  of  all  conventions.  The  night  has  gone 
mad. 

Up  and  down  the  streets  of  New  York,  swarm  multi- 
tudes from  Harlem,  the  Bronx,  the  Jersey  shore,  the 
East  Side,  Brooklyn,  Long  Island  —  swarm  in  one  huge 
rivalry  of  noise-making.  Endless  processions  of  auto- 
mobiles vie  with  each  other  in  attempts  to  out-scream, 
out-bellow,  out-laugh.  When  the  doors  swing  open  to 
admit  sumptuously  attired  women  with  their  perfectly 
groomed  escorts,  a  wave  of  sound  rolls  in  over  the 
tables,  breaking  against  mirrored  walls  like  the  shat- 
tered billows  of  a  cliff-checked  sea.  And  when  the 
doors  are  closed,  and  jealously  guarded  against  all  who 
have  not  some  magic  password,  then  the  tumult  of  the 
dining-room  makes  light  heads  grow  dizzy. 

After  ten  o'clock,  nothing  in  the  great  hotels,  or  in 
any  celebrated  restaurant  along  Broadway,  can  be 
bought  to  slake  the  thirst,  but  champagne.  Fortunately 
one  need  drink  nothing;  fortunately,  too,  one's  money 
may  be  already  spent. 

It  is  twelve  o'clock.  What  a  frightful  uproar! 
Those  who  thought  noise  had  attained  its  climax,  had 
not  reckoned  upon  church  bells  and  factory  whistles. 
The  Old  Year  is  cast  out  upon  the  rubbish  heap  of 
time.  Oh,  the  New  Year,  the  New  Year !  Vive  le  roil 

This  midnight  pandemonium  is  the  warning  call  to 
our  Cinderella.  All  is  spent,  saving  the  cabfare  to 

[81] 


Something  Else 

"  Lee's  Triangle."  Those  splendid  black  horses  must 
soon  be  converted  into  mice. 

"  We  will  go  home,  now,"  bravely  speaks  Irving  to 
Jessie. 

"  Yes,"  Jessie  faintly  responds.  Until  break  of  day 
there  will  be  song  and  laughter  in  every  hotel  and 
restaurant  between  Fourteenth  Street  and  Columbus 
Circle.  It  will  take  the  revellers  till  break  of  day  to 
spend  their  million  dollars,  though  they  average  eight 
dollars  each  for  champagne  alone.  Among  these 
seventy-five  thousand  all-night  devotees  of  pleasure, 
Jessie  must  leave,  in  Beauty's  care,  her  new-found 
prince,  the  Duke  de  Vandever  — 

"  Let 's  all,"  says  Beauty,  opening  her  cigarette-case. 

"  When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ?  "  inquires  Van- 
dever, sincerely  regretful  over  the  separation. 

Irving  rashly  promises,  "  Exactly  one  month  from 
to-night  at  eight,  at  this  table.  Who  '11  be  here?  " 

"  All,  all!  "  cries  Stella.     "  Drink  to  it!  " 

When  they  were  alone  in  the  cab  — "  Jessie,"  Irving 
asked,  defiantly,  "  did  he  kiss  you?  " 

"  No,  he  never,"  came  the  prompt  response. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Jessie,"  Irving  persisted, 
in  a  hard,  unreasonable  tone,  "  did  he?  " 

"Well?"   Jessje  asked. 

"  Oh,  Jessie !  "  he  burst  forth.  "  And  you  knew  all 
the  time  that  I  —  that  I  — " 

"  You  did  n't,  and  you  don't,"  said  Jessie,  kindly. 
The  voice  grew  strangely  soft.  "  You  see,  I  know 
about  it,  Irving  —  and  you  don't.  We  are  just  jolly 

[82] 


A  Night  of  Love 

chums.  And  —  and  oh,  what  a  night,  what  a  night 
we  have  had!  Please  don't  spoil  it." 

Jessie's  tone  was  so  unusual  that  Irving  was  calmed 
in  a  moment.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  know  her  as 
well  as  he  had  imagined.  He  spoke  anxiously :  "  But, 
dear,  you  could  love  me  —  just  a  little  —  I  know 
that—" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  interrupted,  speaking  in  that  same 
strangely  old  voice,  "I  could  love  you:  just  a  little. 
But  just  a  little  love  is  the  smallest  thing  on  earth,  when 
you  want  all.  Some  day,  when  a  girl  gives  you  a 
great,  big  love,  you  '11  know  what  I  mean.  But  don't 
ask  me,  and  don't  ever  ask  anybody,  for  just  a  little 
love.  It 's  all,  or  nothing ;  and  I  tell  you,  I  know  what 
I  'm  talking  about  — "  She  gave  a  little  gurgling 
laugh,  and  added,  "  And  you  don't ! " 

They  stood  before  the  rough-edged  steps  of  Gotham 
Repose.  The  cab  was  gone  —  and  Irving's  last  penny 
with  it.  Irving  was  grieved  and  silent.  Jessie  held 
out  her  hand  to  him  —  the  hand  that  toiled  so  cease- 
lessly at  the  handkerchief -counter  —  the  hand  that  Van- 
dever  had  held  —  and  said,  "  And  when  you  find  that 
girl,  Irving,  I  don't  want  her  to  be  like  me,  but  more 
like  —  like  you." 

What  could  she  have  meant  by  that?  What  could 
she  mean  by  these  sudden  tears,  by  this  hiding  of  the 
face  behind  the  hand  he  had  not  taken  ?  "  And,  O 
Irving !  "  she  cried  desperately,  "  I  wish  I  was  like  that, 
myself  —  I  mean  like  the  girl  you  will  win  some  day  — 
I  mean  like  you.  Because  —  I  don't  know  anything, 

[83] 


Something  Else 

and  I  can't  do  anything,  and  I  want  to  be  —  something 
else." 

The  crystalline  clearness  of  New  Year's  Eve  was 
softened  to  dim  indecision,  in  "  Lee's  Triangle."  The 
faces  of  the  dreary  houses  were  softened  by  the  refine- 
ment of  dimness  and  repose.  Even  the  rough  cobble- 
stones were  smoothed  out  like  a  gray  sheet  of  paper. 
Irving  drew  Jessie  softly  to  him.  Her  lips,  the  lips  that 
Vandever  had  pressed  —  were  so  near,  that  her  breath 
warmed  his  cheek ;  but  he  did  not  kiss  her.  He  only  held 
his  arm,  for  a  moment,  about  her  neck,  then  softly  passed 
his  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  touched  her  hair.  "  Little 
girl,"  he  said,  gently,  "  good-bye.  Go  upstairs  and 
dream,  and  I  '11  just  stroll  about  a  while,  and  —  get  used 
to  waking  up." 

He  waited  till  her  form  vanished  in  the  dimly  lighted 
hall,  then  wandered  for  a  time  about  the  deserted  by- 
streets, but  the  distant  roar  of  Broadway  kept  break- 
ing upon  his  meditations,  and  besides,  it  was  very  cold. 
So  it  was  not  long  before  he  came  back  to  the  lodging- 
house,  without  one  thought  concerning  the  possibilities 
of  the  New  Year,  without  one  resolution  for  the  future. 
Rather  heavily  he  ascended  to  his  third  floor  back ;  and, 
as  he  crawled  over  the  log-like  body  of  Wedging,  he 
prodded  it  quite  unnecessarily  with  his  cold  knee,  in  get- 
ting to  his  own  bed.  Poor  Wedging!  What  had  he 
done  ? 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   MORNING  AFTER 

THE  morning  after  —  ah,  everything1  seems  so 
different  on  the  morning  after,  self  included  — 
everything  except  the  daily  grind  1  When 
Irving  encountered  Jessie  on  the  lodging-house  steps, 
the  morning  following  New  Year's  Eve,  she  was  just 
as  round,  without  doubt ;  but  her  eye  no  longer  flashed, 
her  cheek  was  pale,  and  her  raiment  was  toned  down  to 
a  department  store  atmosphere.  He  found  her  greet- 
ing somewhat  distant,  not  as  if  she  meant  to  slight  him, 
but  as  if  she  could  not  force  her  thoughts  away  from 
images  of  a  past  scene. 

As  they  sat  side  by  side  in  a  Broadway  surface-car, 
Irving  recalled  their  parting  of  the  night  before:  how 
he  had  spoken  to  her  of  love,  and,  while  speaking,  had 
felt  the  bitter-sweet  of  longing;  and  how,  somewhere 
in  the  early  morning,  he  had  been  awakened  from 
profound  slumber  by  a  little  heartache  that  spoke  thus : 
"  Don't  forget  that  Jessie  loves  another !  "  He  did  not 
forget,  but  the  ache  was  gone.  What  had  become  of 
last  night's  tenderness?  Cruel  fate,  to  throw  these  two 
so  prosaically  together,  the  morning  after!  Was  it 
because  her  hand  and  lips  had  been  appropriated  by 
Vandever,  that  Irving  found  them  insulated  from  the 

[85] 


Something  Else 

current  of  his  desire?  Or  is  emptiness  of  soul,  a  corol- 
lary to  emptiness  of  stomach?  Without  a  penny  to  his 
name,  and  nothing  pawn-worthy  in  his  pockets,  there 
seems  no  help,  just  now,  for  the  Jessie  romance. 

They  parted  almost  in  silence,  these  two  who  had 
subtly  changed  to  each  other,  and  to  the  world;  and 
Irving  went  up  to  the  day's  work,  which  had  not  changed. 
The  same  blue  prints  stared  at  him  in  the  same  melan- 
choly way ;  the  same  worldly-wise  messenger  boys  noisily 
came  and  went ;  the  chief -clerk  wore  his  habitual  look 
of  cold  suspicion  of  the  world,  as  if  he  fancied  it  meant 
to  skip  a  few  of  its  revolutions  the  first  time  he  was  off 
guard;  the  stenographers  were  just  as  haughty,  and 
just  as  resolutely  pompadoured  —  as  if  their  customary 
grievances  against  something  had  been  provided  with 
the  ride  in  the  elevator. 

The  office-work,  then,  was  the  same;  but  is  not  one's 
real  life  entirely  apart  from  the  office?  Irving  came 
here  to  dig  for  gold.  Life  is  spending,  is  it  not  ?  — 
spending  or  hoping  to  spend  —  not  digging,  surely. 
After  all,  there  is  a  grim  satisfaction  in  having  a  famil- 
iar routine  running,  like  a  thread,  through  the  heart  of 
one's  days.  Irving  could  reflect,  and  actually  did  feel 
without  reflection, — "  My  money  is  all  spent.  Jessie  does 
not  love  me.  But  here  are  the  same  old  reports  to  make 
out,  and  columns  like  those  of  last  week,  to  foot  up,  ex- 
actly as  when  I  had  my  money  and  my  dream  of  Jessie." 
The  injustice  of  the  system  that  keeps  gray-bearded 
clerks  at  the  same  old  desks  while  young  favorites 
are  crowded  to  the  best  posts  without  previous  serv- 

[86] 


The  Morning  After 

ice  —  one  may  denounce  this,  as  one  did  last  month,  and 
as  one  will  next  year.  There  's  nothing  like  a  perennial 
grievance  to  make  one  think  himself  unchanged.  The 
indignation  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  had  toiled  for 
"  sixty-five  a  month "  for  the  past  twenty-five  years, 
with  never  a  hope,  at  this  late  day  of  "  getting  a  raise  " 
—  who  can  say  that  this  very  indignation  does  not 
keep  those  hearts  fairly  young? 

And  yet,  Irving  was  really  different.  He  hardly 
knew  it,  for  he  was  hungry  without  his  breakfast,  with- 
out his  luncheon,  without  his  dinner.  Surely,  at  this 
rate,  the  young  man  will  starve!  But  at  dusk  we  find 
Irving  over  on  the  West  Side,  in  the  very  heart  of  Old 
Greenwich  Village.  He  is  traversing  those  streets  which 
a  giant's  hand  seems  to  have  cast  in  a  maze  of  tangled 
threads  between  Houston  Street  and  West  Fourteenth. 
He  walks  briskly  —  his  last  streetcar-ticket  is  gone  — 
till  Weehawken  brings  before  him  the  home  of  his  artist- 
friend,  the  one  who  had  found  him  the  position  in  the 
railroad  office.  He  has  come  to  borrow  money,  per- 
haps? Let  us  see. 

It  is  one  of  those  old  houses  that  stand  as  monuments 
of  the  bygone  days  when  Greenwich  Village  was  a 
stage-journey  from  the  city  of  New  York.  All  about 
these  jumbled  streets  stand  ancient  buildings,  facing 
any  direction,  making  no  attempt  to  keep  out  of  the 
way, —  houses  and  streets  whose  very  existence  is  un- 
known to  the  great  mass  of  the  real  city.  For  the 
real  city  has  forgotten  the  past,  it  cares  not  even  for 
the  present.  The  real  city  has  thrown  its  heart  into 

[87] 


Something  Else 

the  future,  like  a  heart  of  Bruce  hurled  into  battle,  and 
is  straining  every  nerve  to  reach  it.  But  over  in  Wee- 
hawken  neighborhood,  life  has  fallen  asleep.  Even  the 
tenements  of  Trinity  Church  swarm  dully,  as  if  the 
hives  were  half-smothered.  Irving  beholds  a  bit  of 
some  past  century,  snared,  as  it  were,  in  a  time-trap  — 
a  trap  that  could  not  possibly  hold  its  ancient  prey, 
but  for  the  one-time  custom  of  leasing  houses  for  fifty 
or  a  hundred  years. 

Irving's  friend  has  lived  sixty  years  in  this  same 
house,  here  where  no  artist  of  a  modern  day  would  think 
of  dwelling,  or  even  of  visiting,  unless  he  had  a  soul 
above  strange  smells.  The  neighborhood  —  but  really, 
there  is  no  neighborhood,  for  one  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  factory  except  rejoice  when  its  smoke  blows  to- 
ward the  Hudson.  One  lives  to  oneself  in  the  rooms 
back  of  the  corner  grocery,  with  the  studio  on  the  second 
floor,  and,  for  the  rest,  with  one's  memories  of  dead 
friends,  which  flavor  even  the  visits  of  those  still  living. 

The  house  is  of  frame,  crowded  at  one  end  by  a 
three-story  brick,  and  shoved  at  the  other  by  a  line  of 
one-story  shops.  Its  side  faces  the  street,  for  it  has 
neither  front  nor  rear,  standing  like  one  in  a  train  of 
cars,  the  brick  house  for  the  engine,  the  little  shops  for 
flat-cars,  its  broadside  turned  against  any  tide  of  in- 
novation that  might  threaten.  Irving  swiftly  ascends 
the  outside  stairs  which  stretch  from  grocer's  door  to 
studio  door,  hugging  the  side  —  or,  if  you  will,  the 
front  —  of  the  building. 

When  he  reached  the  narrow  platform  above,  he 
[88] 


The  Morning  After 

opened  the  only  door,  as  usual,  without  knocking, 
though  he  had  been  six  weeks  absent.  He  passed  at 
once  into  the  barn-like  room,  which  occupied  the  entire 
upper  story.  A  man  —  the  man  he  sought  —  was 
working  at  a  half -finished  portrait,  with  brush  fastened 
to  the  end  of  a  long  mahlstick. 

The  man  looked  up  without  surprise  —  he  had  recog- 
nized the  footsteps  on  the  outside  stair  —  and  nodded 
with  a  sort  of  gruff  cordiality.  "  There  you  are !  "  he 
said,  with  unmistakable  satisfaction.  A  light  swung 
over  the  easel,  and  its  green  shade  deepened  the  habitual 
reserve  of  the  artist's  expression.  He  was  sixty  years  or 
more ;  strong,  or  rather,  tough,  for  his  age,  but  not  as 
the  saying  goes,  young. 

"  I  never  come  into  this  room,"  Irving  declared, 
breezily,  as  he  sniffed  the  faint  perfume  of  paints,  oils 
and  turpentine,  "  without  feeling  that  I  have  lost  my 
way  out  of  life  into  some  sort  of  a  story."  He  noted, 
with  an  affectionate  smile,  that  Christopher  Burl's  table 
was  just  as  he  had  last  seen  it,  heaped  with  charcoals, 
pastels,  colors,  and  trays  of  paint-tubes  squeezed  to  limp 
disfigurement,  or  lying  fat  with  plenty.  Beyond  the 
swinging  light,  the  paint-cabinet  stood  ajar,  as  usual; 
and,  as  usual,  the  blue  vase,  as  tall  as  a  man's  shoulders, 
looked  across  the  bare  floor  at  the  articulated  skeleton. 

Yes,  everything  seemed  to  be  as  it  had  been  for  the 
past  three  years,  the  same  remote  corners  of  semi-gloom, 
the  same  homely,  time-blackened  rafters,  the  same  mat- 
ter-of-fact unfinished  walls,  here  plastered,  there  only 
lathed, —  and  the  same  Christopher  Burl,  reserved,  seri- 

[89] 


Something  Else 

ous,  slow  of  movment.  Even  the  half-finished  face  on 
the  canvas  harmonized  with  the  atmosphere  of  familiar- 
ity; it  was  the  face  of  last  night's  theatre,  of  last 
month's  court  room,  and  now,  it  seemed  naturally 
enough,  the  face  of  the  huge  studio. 

Irving  observed,  after  first  drawing  a  chair  before 
the  open  fireplace,  and  seating  himself  sidewise  on  the 
arm,  "  I  see  you  are  painting  Mrs.  Vandever's  portrait." 

To  that,  nothing  was  to  be  said,  apparently.  Mr. 
Burl  was  not  filled  with  redundant  words. 

Irving  secretly  delighted  in  the  other's  silence,  for  it 
always  pleased  him  to  recognize  familiar  traits  in  those 
he  liked.  And  he  liked  this  Christopher  Burl  immensely, 
without  knowing  just  why,  unless  because  the  other 
cared  a  great  deal  for  him. 

"  I  was  thinking,  as  I  came  over  here,"  Irving  said, 
cheerily,  "  that  I  could  n't,  for  the  life  of  me,  explain 
how  you  and  I  ever  get  on  so  well.  I  feel  more  at 
home  with  you  than  with  anybody,  even  Captain  Payne, 
my  foster-father.  Was  it  really  just  three  years  ago 
that  you  came  up  to  me  in  Washington  Park  to  bor- 
row a  match  for  your  pipe?  And  did  the  match  really 
light  up  our  acquaintanceship  —  or  had  we  known  each 
other  a  long  time,  in  some  former  existence? "  He 
laughed  at  the  whimsical  fancy.  "  It  seems  that  we 
just  grew  on  each  other,  till  we  've  become  grafted." 

"  Just  growed  up,"  said  the  artist,  with  a  touch  of 
Topsy.  There  was  no  smile  on  his  face  —  it  was  some- 
where within,  and  could  n't  get  out.  Christopher  Burl's 
white  hair  was  stroked  straight  up,  according  to  custom ; 

[90] 


The  Morning  After 

his  drooping  mustache  was  white,  and  so  was  his  short 
goatee,  which  left  exposed  the  smooth,  full  cheeks.  The 
pockets  of  his  eyes  were  pronounced.  The  nose  was 
straight  and  slightly  rounded  at  the  end.  The  broad 
brow  was  unwrinkled.  Save  for  the  shadow  in  the  eyes, 
there  would  have  been  something  boyish  in  the  general 
effect ;  but  the  shadow  was  there,  ever  lurking,  as  if 
Time,  in  his  hurry,  could  not  stop  to  cut  his  trademark 
at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  or  upon  the  forehead,  and 
had  left  sorrow  to  tell  of  his  passing. 

Irving  looked  affectionately  at  the  platform  support- 
ing the  dais,  on  which  he  had  once  posed  as  a  model, 
schoolbooks  in  hand.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  dingy 
green  damask  curtain  pulled  across  the  skylight  above 
the  dais,  to  shut  out  the  gathering  night.  Those  had 
been  jolly  days.  Having  squandered  every  nickel  of 
father  Payne's  allowance,  here  he  had  come  to  weather 
the  gale  of  poverty,  until  the  next  remittance  from 
New  Jersey  brought,  him  into  port.  Now,  he  was  a 
man.  And  still  — 

Irving  laughed  out,  suddenly  and  loudly.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  can  guess  what  I  've  come  for?  " 

Mr.  Burl  slowly  unstrapped  his  brush  from  the  mahl- 
stick.  "Another  relapse?"  he  asked,  looking  intently 
at  the  young  man,  as  if  in  half  a  mind  to  paint  him 
on  the  spot. 

"  Have  n't  a  penny  in  the  world,"  Irving  declared, 
not  buoyantly,  but  by  no  means  despondently.  "  I 
was  just  thinking  — I  'm  precisely  as  I  used  to  be,  ex- 
cept I  'm  no  longer  a  boy.  You  '11  think  that  ought 

[91] 


Something  Else 

to  make  a  difference.  I  'm  sure  it  ought.  But  it 
does  n't.  Feels  just  the  same.  Yes,  I  've  come  back 
to  you,  to  recoup." 

"  Pawn  tickets  ?  "  the  other  asked,  without  seeming 
interest. 

"  One  gold  watch.  One  diamond  stud.  Several  et 
ceteras.  New  Year's  Eve,"  added  Irving,  listing  his 
misfortunes. 

Mr.  Burl  was  distinguished  for  pregnant  brevity. 
"Hungry?" 

Irving  imitated  him,  successfully.  "  Not  a  bite  to- 
day." 

"Still  hold  your  job?" 

"  Still  on  that,  yes.  Oh,  I  '11  make  it  all  back  in  a 
month, —  well,  say  two  months.  In  the  meantime? 
That 's  the  point.  I  must  recoup.  Going  to  let  me  do 
my  cooking  here,  as  in  the  university  days?  Going  to 
let  me  have  that  spare  bedroom?  Lodgings  are  very  ex- 
pensive." 

"  Why  not  eat  with  me  at  my  club  ?  "  Mr.  Burl  asked, 
just  as  he  had  often  asked  Irving  in  the  days  referred 
to,  when  the  young  man's  resources  were  on  the  minus- 
side  of  zero.  He  came  to  the  fireplace,  spread  his  legs, 
and  stared  down  at  the  other's  changeful  face,  his  own 
never  changing. 

Irving  shook  his  head,  always  grateful,  but  always 
determined.  "  Not  for  mine,"  he  declared.  "  I  might 
as  well  go  home  and  let  mother  and  father  Payne  take 
care  of  me,  or  go  to  work  on  a  tugboat.  No;  if  a 
penniless  man  is  n't  independent,  he  is  n't  anything, 

[92] 


The  Morning  After 

not  even  a  man.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  he 
added,  as  a  concession,  "  I  '11  borrow,  if  you  don't  mind." 

There  was  one  strange  thing  about  this  Christopher 
Burl,  an  entire  stranger  until  three  years  ago,  he  never 
objected  to  lending.  Irving  was  just  as  willing  for 
the  money  to  change  hands  as  was  the  other.  Is  there 
any  greater  proof  of  friendship? 

Mr.  Burl  spread  out  his  sackcoat,  with  nervous,  slim 
hands  buried  in  the  pockets.  "  Boy,"  he  said  abruptly 
—  at  certain  moments,  psychologically  similar,  he  al- 
ways addressed  Irving  so  — "  I  don't  ask  you  if  it  pays ; 
but,  do  you  f eel  that  it  pays  ?  " 

"  Does  it  pay  ? "  repeated  Irving,  his  eyes  on  the 
dancing  flames,  his  hands  locked  behind  his  head  — 
"Why!  it's  what  I'm  for." 

Mr.  Burl  gave  a  noncommittal  grunt,  and  tramped 
away  from  the  hearth,  kicking  a  hassock  skimmingly 
over  the  bare  floor,  on  his  way  to  the  table.  He  groped 
under  palettes,  papers  and  varnishes,  unearthed  a  check- 
book, and  filled  in  a  blank  for  one  hundred  dollars. 
The  same  fountain-pen,  without  one  ironic  flourish, 
recorded  Irving's  promise-to-pay.  The  artist  paused 
a  moment  to  stare  blankly  at  Mrs.  Vandever's  portrait, 
as  if  wondering  how  it  had  got  into  the  room,  then 
came  back  to  the  fire,  after  going  out  of  his  way  to 
kick  another  hassock  after  the  first.  He  had  no  dis- 
like for  hassocks,  as  such;  the  act  of  kicking  merely 
expressed  a  psychic  state.  Had  not  Irving  known 
him  so  well,  he  might  have  suspected  reluctance  to  lend, 
out  of  all  proportion  to  his  willingness  to  borrow. 

[93] 


Something  Else   . 

Knowing  him  so  well,  he  was  deeply  puzzled.  Some- 
thing had  happened  during  his  six  weeks'  absence  — 
something  of  vital  importance  to  this  lonely  man. 

Mr.  Burl  abruptly,  haltingly,  made  his  announce- 
ment :  "  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  Irving,  that  you  cannot 
have  that  spare  bedroom  that  was  as  much  yours 
as  mine,  during  your  educational  recoups.  It  is  —  it  is 
in  use.  That  is  to  say  —  it  is  vacant,  to-day,  and  it 
was  vacant  yesterday,  but  —  the  fact  is,  it  may  be  oc- 
cupied at  any  time.  Which  would  inconvenience  you." 

Irving  was  astonished.  He  was  not  certain  whether 
the  other  was  a  widower  or  a  bachelor,  but  it  had  been 
his  understanding  that  Mr.  Burl  had  no  living  relative. 

The  artist  continued :  "  But,  as  for  coming  here  to 
concoct  your  messes,  since  it 's  cheaper  than  the  restau- 
rants, come  ahead.  Partition  off  your  old  corner. 
Cook  what  you  please,  when  I  'm  away  at  the  club ;  but 
if  I  'm  on  the  place,  nothing  but  cocoa,  mind." 

"  Then  I  '11  get  to  work,"  said  Irving,  starting  up 
briskly,  still  wondering  about  the  bedroom,  and  about 
his  friend's  reticence.  "  With  a  salary  of  twenty  a 
week,  room-rent  at  two,  remittance  home  of  ten,  and 
most  of  this  hundred  to  the  pawnbroker,  I  '11  have  to 
hustle,  I  tell  you!  "  He  grinned  somewhat  ruefully. 

In  a  short  time,  Irving  had  fenced  off  a  distant  corner 
with  his  familiar  screens,  which  fitted  groove  into  groove. 
A  ceiling  of  canvas  about  eight  feet  lower  than  the 
studio's  rafters,  stretched  above  the  screens  and  the  two 
walls  of  unplastered  boards.  Fortunately  this  impro- 
vised chamber  embraced  a  window  by  means  of  which 

[94] 


The  Morning  After 

the  odor  of  his  cookery  might  escape.  And  sometimes 
it  really  did  escape  in  that  manner.  A  small  coal-oil 
stove,  and  the  presence  of  the  little  grocery  in  the  same 
building  insured  a  satisfied  appetite. 

In  the  meantime,  the  artist  had  drawn  one  of  the  two 
huge  armchairs  before  the  hearth.  With  his  briarpipe 
alight,  he  watched  the  ridiculous  shadows  of  arms  and 
shoulders  cast  by  Irving  upon  the  inner  side  of  the 
screens.  Every  bite  taken  by  the  young  man  was  dis- 
torted to  Gargantuan  proportions,  but  Mr.  Burl  did 
not  smile;  he  only  smoked  and  watched,  with  brooding 
intentness. 

When  Irving  finally  emerged, — "  Now,"  said  Mr. 
Burl,  abruptly,  "  sit  here  " —  he  nodded  at  the  other 
armchair,  "  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Everything,  mind ; 
and  —  if  you  tell  me  of  any  wisdom,  I  '11  not  believe 
it."  His  goatee  slightly  quivered,  which  was  as  good 
as  an  open  laugh. 

So  Irving,  from  the  depths  of  the  great  chair  —  the 
chair  which  was  usually  dedicated  to  old  Dr.  Adams  — 
told  of  the  wonderful  lights  —  and  of  none  of  the 
shadows  —  of  New  Year's  Eve ;  for  of  course  he  began 
with  the  most  important  event  of  the  past  six  weeks. 
The  Duke  —  by  the  way,  the  son  of  that  very  Mrs. 
Vandever,  yonder,  on  the  canvas  —  the  Duke  had  said 
this ;  Irving  had  said  that ;  and  Jessie  had  looked  —  but 
that  was  all  over,  now. 

Mr.  Burl,  with  legs  crossed  and  with  upper  foot 
slightly  swinging  to  and  fro,  drank  it  all  in,  as  he 
looked  from  Irving  to  the  fire,  and  back  again.  Irving 

[95] 


Something  Else 

talked  on  and  on,  in  a  rush  of  merry  memories,  forget- 
ful of  last  night's  heartache;  and  Christopher  Burl 
reached  forth  to  break  a  coal  into  a  streaming  flare  of 
crimson.  His  face  was  touched  by  the  light  with  a 
glow  his  emotions  were  no  longer  able  to  paint,  how- 
ever artistic  they  might  feel;  but  Irving  glowed  inde- 
pendently of  the  fire,  as  if  he  were  adding  physical 
warmth  to  the  room  of  shadowed  corners.  Yes,  thus 
they  spoke,  thus  laughed,  on  New  Year's  Eve;  thus,  in 
a  word,  they  had  for  a  few  hours,  lived  —  as  many  live 
every  day.  Nothing  to  worry  about,  nothing  to  do  but 
pursue  happiness,  always  overtaking  it,  then  rush  on 
to  new  delights.  If  one  can  but  afford  it,  there  is  a 
whole  lifetime  of  it  —  no  recoups,  no  fears  of  pawn- 
brokers, no  cooking  in  a  corner.  Surely  it  is  what  we 
are  for! 

"  To  keep  it  up  all  the  time,"  sighed  Irving,  not  with 
envy,  but  with  infinite  longing ;  "  it  must  be  great ! " 
Then  he  added,  "  But  to  change  the  subject :  I  've  found 
out  all  about  my  parents." 

Christopher  Burl  dropped  his  pipe  upon  the  bearskin. 
Too  bad!  There  was  a  faint,  sickly  odor  of  scorched 
fur.  After  hasty  hands  had  dashed  away  the  sparks, 
a  round  bluish  spot  remained.  The  artist  rose,  nerv- 
ously. "  Never  mind  the  rug,"  he  exclaimed.  "  What 
about  your  mother?  "  He  refilled  his  briar,  with  a 
slightly  tremulous  hand. 

"  She  is  dead,"  Irving  answered  softly,  as  he  stared 
into  the  fire.  "  She  came  to  New  York,  alone,  to  ask 

[96] 


The  Morning  After 

forgiveness  of  her  family.  She  'd  eloped  with  —  my 
father ;  her  family  disapproved  of  him.  They  would  n't 
forgive.  They  turned  her  from  the  door."  His  voice 
deepened.  "  She  was  in  great  want.  After  she  died, 
the  Paynes  took  me,  knowing  nothing  about  her."  A 
poignant  pathos  stole  upon  the  young  man's  heart;  it 
seemed  to  spread  until  it  engulfed  both  him  and  his 
listener.  He  related  all  he  had  been  told  by  Mrs.  Wyse. 
Somehow,  from  her  lips,  the  story  had  failed  to  achieve 
the  tragic  note  that  one  feels  rather  than  hears.  The 
cold,  carefully  correct  manner  of  the  landlady  had 
sterilized  her  narrative.  Now  it  quivered  with  sorrow- 
ful life.  In  the  telling,  it  came  to  Irving,  surprisingly, 
how  futile  was  all  last  night's  adventure.  The  words 
he  had  but  recently  spoken  about  the  real  object  of  life, 
how  hollow  and  meaningless  they  sounded,  now,  in 
memory ! 

When  he  had  told  everything,  there  was  a  long 
silence,  broken  at  last  by  the  older  man :  "  You  know 
nothing  of  your  mother's  family?  " 

"  No ;  and  I  don't  want  to  know  anything.  Those 
who  had  the  heart  to  turn  her  out  in  the  street  to  die  of 
privation,  well  — "  He  gave  a  short,  bitter  laugh : 
"  You  can  understand  that  I  would  n't  desire  their  ac- 
quaintance." 

Mr.  Burl,  with  hands  interlocked  behind  him,  paced 

the  floor  with  downcast  head.     He  had  taken  his  favorite 

path,  that  between  the  tall  blue-and-gilt  vase,  and  the 

skeleton.     "  Well !  "  he  said,  not  pausing  in  his  walk, 

>  [97] 


Something  Else 

"  and  so,  now  you  know  —  thanks  to  this  landlady. 
Well !  And  after  knowing,  you  are  precisely  where  you 
were  before,  eh?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am  not.  I  know  that  my  father  and 
mother  loved  me,  and  deserted  me  for  one  reason  only 
—  because  both  died." 

"  That  makes  a  great  difference,"  Mr.  Burl  admitted. 

"  A  vital  difference,"  said  Irving,  starting  up. 
"Don't  you  see?  I  can  think  of  them  without  misgiv- 
ing ;  I  can  think  of  them  with  love  and  pity.  And  be- 
fore Mrs.  Wyse  told  me  the  truth,  I  did  n't  know.  I 
was  always  afraid  that  they  were  —  had  been  —  what 
they  were  not,  you  understand.  It  gives  me  deeper 
breath.  I  have  a  heritage  of  poverty,  but  also  of  honor. 
And  thanks  to  father  and  mother  Payne,  I  have  not 
felt  poverty's  sting.  They  have  given  me  love." 

Back  and  forth  marched  the  sombre  figure  of  the 
artist.  At  last  he  said,  "  And  your  father's  name  ? 
Hi*  family?" 

Irving  shook  his  head.  "  Mrs.  Wyse  thinks  she  can 
find  out  for  me,  if  she  can't  remember.  But  so  far,  she 
has  n't  been  able  to  give  the  slightest  clue." 

"You'll  let  me  know,  if  you  find  out?"  asked  the 
other,  eagerly  —  he  who  was  never  eager.  Irving 
promised,  of  course,  and  presently  the  figures  which 
their  intercourse  had  brought  out  of  the  vanished  past, 
faded  away,  and  other  matters,  matters  of  the  day, 
clouded  the  very  memory  of  the  dead.  The  talk  flowed 
presently  into  brighter  pastures;  flowers  of  friendship 
were  refreshed. 

[98] 


The  Morning  After 

"  Come ! "  cried  Mr.  Burl,  resuming  his  seat,  "  sing 
for  me,  boy.  You  've  neglected  me  shamelessly  these 
past  weeks." 

"  I  've  been  awfully  busy,"  said  Irving,  then  thought 
of  Jessie  and  paused  with  open  mouth,  then  laughed. 
He  sprang  for  the  guitar.  "  There  's  a  song  —  it 's 
old  now  —  been  out,  a  month  —  but  maybe  you  have  n't 
heard  it  — " 

"  I  never  hear  any  songs  that  you  don't  sing  me," 
said  the  other,  still  with  subtle  reproach. 

Irving  tuned  the  guitar,  slapped  its  back ;  tuned  it 
again;  spread  his  fingers  over  the  strings,  as  if  to 
wrench  them  off;  went  to  hunt  a  hassock,  meanwhile 
humping  his  body  over  the  instrument  as  if  careful  not 
to  wake  it;  propped  his  foot;  tuned  again;  and  so,  at 
last,  reached  the  point  of  clearing  his  throat.  His  voice 
was  flexible  —  a  real  convenience,  when  the  only  chords 
one  knows  are  in  C  Major,  to  which  all  songs  must  be 
adjusted.  He  began: 

"  You  may  have  the  rest  of  the  world, 
But  give  me  New  York  for  mine. 

I  'd  swop  the  dough  of  Baltimo', 
And  all  the  wealth  of—" 

His  voice  died  away.  The  ghost  of  New  Year's  Eve 
waved  at  him.  "  A  jjerson  can't  sing  that  by  himself," 
he  declared ;  "  it  sounds  so  flat !  " 

"  It  seemed  to  swing  along  fairly  well,  I  thought," 
the  listener  demurred. 

"  Oh,  but  it  ought  to  go  like  a  house  afire,"  said  Irv- 
ing, with  a  rueful  laugh.  "  It  takes  a  whole  lot  of  peo- 

[99] 


Something  Else 

pie.  When  I  sing  it  alone,  it 's  as  lonesome  as  —  as 
the  morning  after." 

It  was  about  eleven,  when  Irving  bade  the  other  good- 
night. Then  it  was  that  Christopher  Burl,  with  marked 
embarrassment,  returned  to  the  subject  that  had  previ- 
ously mystified  his  guest.  "  Very  sorry  you  can't  have 
that  spare  bedroom,  Irving,  but — " 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  ri  — " 

"  And  hold  on.  That  is  n't  all.  You  're  welcome 
here  at  any  time,  as  far  as  housekeeping  goes,  except  — 
unless  —  In  fact,  we  '11  have  to  make  some  sort  of  ar- 
rangement. Now,  boy,  I  'm  going  to  be  as  frank  as  a 
man  can  be  who  speaks  of  mysteries.  To  be  plain,  the 
person  that  will  come,  occasionally,  to  occupy  that  spare 
bedroom  is  —  a  —  is  an  unusual  person,  who  does  n't 
want  it  known  that  he  or  she  —  as  the  case  may  be  — 
is  in  the  city.  There  are  reasons.  They  are  excellent. 
Of  course,  since  you  're  not  to  have  the  bedroom,  we  've 
solved  that  difficulty.  But  suppose  that  person  were 
up  here,  when  you  came  in.  That  person  would  rather 
die  than  be  discovered  in  New  York;  I  have  no  doubt 
would  die  —  but  I  owe  that  person  shelter." 

"  Then,"  Irving  began,  dismayed,  but  still  too  loyal 
to  take  offence  — 

"  No,  let  me  think."  Mr.  Burl  dug  his  hands  into  his 
coat  pocket,  and  spread  out  the  corners  till  the  sack- 
coat  was  like  a  sail.  "  See  that  window,  over  the  out- 
side stairs?  Now,  whenever  you  come  this  way,  look 
up ;  and  if  this  bicycle-lamp  is  in  the  window  — "  he 
took  one  from  the  mantel,  where  it  could  not  have 

[100] 


The  Morning  After 

belonged  — "  that  will  mean,,  '  Stay. ,  awaj/  .  ,You 
see?"  :,,!!'  UKl^i?#> 

"  It  sounds  adventurous,"  Irving  said,  doubtfully. 

"  It  is  adventurous,"  Mr.  Burl  admitted,  pursing  his 
lips.  "  I  would  not  miss  your  company,  when  the  coast 
is  clear,  for  any  consideration,  but  I  would  n't  have  you 
come  here,  when  that  person  is  here,  for  —  well,  for 
anything ;  it 's  a  matter  of  honor."  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  young  man's  shoulder  and  said,  with  unwonted 
gentleness,  "  You  feel  all  right  about  it,  I  hope,  boy?  " 

"  I  believe  you  really  want  me  to  come,"  Irving  said, 
hesitatingly. 

"  With  all  my  heart.  I  want  to  hear  more  talk,  more 
songs,  in  a  word,  I  want  you,  boy.  So  humor  my  little 
mystery.  There  's  no  harm  in  it,  I  assure  you.  After 
all,  the  mystery  is  not  mine  but  —  the  person's.  Arid 
God  knows,  it 's  something  that  can't  be  helped." 

"  Sure,  I  '11  come,"  Irving  declared,  heartily.  "  I  '11 
keep  an  eye  out  for  the  bicycle-lamp ;  you  'd  better 
light  her  up  at  dusk,  if  there  's  danger.  And  I  '11  sing 
for  you  till  I  'm  hoarse ;  maybe  I  '11  finally  learn  how." 

Mr.  Burl  was  intensely  gratified  at  the  way  his  mystery 
had  been  received,  but  his  only  token  of  pleasure  was  a 
crushing  hand-grip  and  the  words,  "  If  I  had  my  wish, 
you  'd  live  here  all  the  time." 

Surely  that  was  much  to  say  for  a  man  who,  three 
years  ago,  was  an  absolute  stranger.  Irving  returned 
the  clasp  impulsively,  declaring  that  the  bicycle-lamp 
would  introduce  a  delightful  note  of  uncertainty  into  the 
adventures  of  his  housekeeping.  And  yet,  when  he  left 

[101] 


*  Something  Else 

Weehawken  Street,  his  step  was  hardly  so  brisk  as  at  his 
coming  although,  of  course,  the  mysterious  "  person  " 
could  not  concern  him.  He  arrived  in  due  time  at  his 
lodgings.  Was  there  something  sinister  in  the  deep 
quiet  of  "  Lee's  Triangle  "  ?  Was  there  something  for- 
bidding in  the  frown  of  the  narrow  brownstone  front? 
The  stone  flight  showed,  in  the  gloom,  its  grayish  steps, 
like  teeth  broken  at  the  edges,  laughing  in  their  old  age. 
Were  they  laughing  at  Irving  Payne? 


[102] 


CHAPTER  VII 

STRANGE   MEETING   IN   THE   STUDIO 

IRVING  was  not  now  gathering  dream-roses  in  his 
waking  hours.  During  the  days  following  his  re- 
adjustment to  economic  conditions,  work  in  the 
sky-scraper  appeared  the  most  vital  of  realities,  that 
upon  which  hinged  his  self-preservation.  Cooking  his 
own  dinner  took  away  the  essential  zest  for  a  meal  which 
is  born  of  vague  ignorance  as  to  details,  and  optimism  as 
to  the  ensemble.  A  preliminary  taste  with  one's  nostrils, 
if  too  long  enforced,  dulls  the  palate. 

His  evenings  were  spent  so  late  with  Christopher  Burl 
that,  when  Irving  returned  to  Gotham  Repose,  Mrs. 
Wyse's  parlor  had  been  converted  into  a  bedroom, 
while  the  halls  were  but  cold  odors  of  the  day's  history. 
Sometimes,  when  he  started  to  work  in  the  mornings,  he 
met  Jessie,  but  they  soon  parted  company ;  for  the 
young  man's  Spartan  breakfast  of  one  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  bun  was  not  such  as  the  brave  could  offer  up 
at  the  shrine  of  the  fair. 

Moreover,  Irving  imagined  a  grievance  against  Jes- 
sie —  he  hardly  knew  what  it  was  —  some  reason  for 
feeling  aggrieved,  such  as  forces  people  apart  without 
prompting  too  close  a  scrutiny  into  the  cause.  He  had 
virtually  offered  Jessie  his  most  sacred  possession  — 

[103] 


Something  Else 

one  might  almost  say,  his  only  possession  —  his  heart. 
She  had  not  taken  it,  luckily ;  and  now  he  had  ceased  to 
feel  like  giving  it  away. 

Had  Irving  really  cared,  even  as  much  as  he  thought 
he  cared,  it  would  have  been  bitter  irony  that  he  served 
merely  to  remind  Jessie  of  young  Vandever.  Irving's 
face  and  form,  thanks  to  the  surprising  resemblance, 
brought  before  her  the  "  Duke  "  standing  among  lights 
and  flowers,  his  head  thrown  back  that  he  might  look 
down  into  her  eyes,  his  eloquent  hand  clasping  hers, 
knighting  her  spirit,  as  it  were,  till  she  ceased  to  feel 
herself  an  integral  factor  of  department  store  life. 

But  Irving  did  not  care  as  much  as  he  thought  he 
cared ;  and,  according  to  his  disposition,  having  lost  one 
interest,  he  sought  another.  He  could  compare  no 
pleasures  to  those  that  come  as  one's  money  vanishes  — 
pleasures,  alas !  that  show  such  ungrateful  haste  to  over- 
take the  money.  But  such  delights  were  for  the  time 
beyond  his  reach ;  so  he  exercised  his  gift  of  lowering  his 
sounding  board  to  catch  those  timid  tones  that  twitter  an 
octave  below  the  full  song  of  joy.  Let  but  a  note  of 
pleasure,  however  faint,  float  within  reach,  he  became 
its  megaphone,  swelling  it  to  exaggerated  proportions. 

The  young  man  exercised  himself  as  heartily  to  cheer 
up  the  lonely  artist,  as  he  had  striven  to  amuse  Jessie. 
In  making  the  pretty  shopgirl  happy,  his  motives  had 
been  somewhat  mercenary,  after  all,  because  her  sweet 
smiles  had  paid  him  in  gold.  His  was  a  very  different 
reward,  for  making  Mr.  Burl's  goatee  quiver  from  the 
amusement  that  hid  below  the  surface.  Still,  it  was 

[104] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

something.  This  endeavor  to  brighten  up  Mr.  Burl's 
life,  not  so  much  as  a  return  for  hospitality,  as  because 
all  lives  ought  to  be  bright,  forced  upon  Irving's 
memory  the  desire  of  the  French  restaurateur  for  a 
soloist.  He  was  telling  Mr.  Burl  about  Monsieur  du 
Pays,  when  he  recalled  Chartier's  quest. 

That  very  night,  Irving  dropped  in  at  the  French 
restaurant,  to  interview  the  proprietor,  and,  the  day 
after,  sought  Monsieur  du  Pays.  He  did  not  have  to 
visit  Jessie  at  her  handkerchief -counter,  to  learn  that  the 
Frenchman  was  no  longer  employed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  partition.  He  knew  it  when  Mrs.  Wyse  informed 
him  that  Monsieur  was  in  his  room,  but  — 

"  Not  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor,"  said  the 
little  woman  in  distinguished  black.  She  added  in  her 
aggravatingly  correct  tone,  "  He  occupies  the  rear." 
Therefore,  Monsieur  du  Pays  was  no  longer  a  tryer-on 
of  popular  songs,  daily  fitting  the  voices  of  the  musically 
affected.  He  and  Madame  were  wont  to  flit  back  and 
forth  between  front  room  and  back,  according  to  good 
fortune. 

"  What  honor ! "  Madame  du  Pays  cried,  her  voice 
breaking  in  the  fragile  shrillness  of  crystalline  excite- 
ment. "  Give  yourself  the  pain  to  enter.  Here  we  are, 
all  two." 

Irving  gave  himself  the  pain  to  enter ;  also  "  de  vous 
asseoir."  From  the  window  behind  Monsieur  du  Pays' 
leonine  head  he  caught  a  melancholy  view  of  the  scabby 
brick  wall,  upon  which  an  early  cat  paraded. 

"  But  yes,"  said  Madame,  observing  the  young  man's 
[105] 


Something  Else 

disconcerted  inspection,  "  one  sees  much  of  the  wall,  is 
it  not?  Eh  bien!  We  feel  much  with  ourselves,  how- 
ever —  what  you  say,  to  home.  We  need  not  look  at  the 
cat." 

Irving  told  them  about  his  lonely  old  bachelor-friend, 
of  course  saying  nothing  about  the  bicycle-lamp,  for 
that  might  have  assumed  to  them  the  significance  of  a 
native  legend.  Would  Monsieur  du  Pays  sing  for  the 
white-haired  artist,  just  as  a  friend?  It  was  no  pro- 
fessional call,  but  perhaps  Monsieur  would  enjoy  the 
visit.  It  would  be  a  delightful  treat  to  Mr.  Burl  — 
"  And  all  of  us  will  be  richer,"  Irving  declared,  genially. 

"  'T  is  true  my  voice  is  at  the  rest,"  said  Monsieur, 
"  for  it  is  two  days  since  my  throat  refused  to  support ; 
it  is  that  I  have  what  you  say  lost  the  job.  I  am  very 
strong  to-day.  I  could  r-r-roar  like  a  lion."  He 
shook  his  long  blonde  locks,  defiantly.  "  But  I  can- 
not roar  off  the  j  ob ;  for  do  I  leave  Angelique,  to  sing 
for  pleasure  ?  " 

"  Ah  del!  "  cried  Madame,  with  amazing  volubility, 
"  y°u  g°  w^h  Mr.  Payne.  It  is  my  heart's  desire. 
You  come  back,  you  tell  me  everything  of  new.  Not 
often  we  are  asked  to  drink  the  wine  of  friendship.  We 
have  bien  soif  for  that  wine,  tou jours,  is  it  not?  " 

"Do  I  leave  you  for  the  wine  of  friendship?"  ex- 
claimed the  impressionable  tenor.  "  Who  but  you  sup- 
ports my  courage  when  my  accursed  throat  will  not 
support  my  voice  ?  " 

The  thin,  shabbily  dressed  Angelique, —  how  her 
ordinary  face  was  transformed  by  the  rare  dignity  of 

[106] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

the  woman  who  knows  herself  beloved !     Had  Irving  ever 
thought  her  plain? 

The  young  man,  half -remorseful  at  separating  these 
old  lovers,  hurried  to  explain  that  Chartier  would  be 
at  the  studio.  Chartier  would  hear  Monsieur  du  Pays 
sing,  and  doubtless  contract  for  his  services,  since  he 
was  without  a  soloist.  Yes,  it  was  the  Chartier  who 
owned  the  restaurant  just  off  Washington  Square, 
where  you  get  a  seven-course  dinner  for  forty  cents, 
with  grand  opera  thrown  in  —  that  is  to  say,  a  soloist, 
two  violins  and  a  piano.  They  were  in  desperate  straits 
for  a  singer.  Their  old  soloist  was  lost ;  no  one  could 
find  him,  not  even  his  wife.  Chartier  had  explained, 
"  It  is  that  he  have  another  girl  —  voila!  "  In  this 
restaurant  Monsieur  du  Pays  could  sing  the  great  songs 
of  ten  —  thirty  —  fifty  years  ago. 

"  If  the  great  songs  have  been  composed  that  long," 
Irving  added,  doubtfully.  He  could  not  think  there  had 
been  much  grand  opera  before  the  twentieth  century. 
"  And  if  your  voice  fails  —  anyway,  there  will  be  so 
much  noise  and  rattle  of  dishes  — " 

"  It  is  what  you  call  an  opening ! "  Monsieur  ex- 
claimed, in  an  altered  tone.  "  Who  knows  ?  I  may 
crawl  through,  perhaps.  I  will  come.  My  throat  — " 

"  Your  throat  will  stand  under,  I  know  well,"  cried 
his  wife.  "  You  have  this  position  already  in  your 
hand.  Mr.  Payne  has  given  it.  And  you  sing  only 
the  songs  worthy.  I  nevair  again,"  she  cried,  her  eyes 
flashing ;  "  I  nevair  hear  from  your  lips  that  *  Coon, 
coon,  coon,  little  yaller  ba-a-a-by.'  " 

[107] 


Something  Else 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Monsieur  du  Pays  should 
come  to  the  studio  the  next  evening,  at  eight. 

"  And  you  must  tell  your  artist  friend,"  cried 
Madame,  "  for  I  will  not  be  there  —  and  Monsieur 
would  not  tell  —  that  once  he  sang  for  the  great  Queen 
Victoria,  so  good  and  very  large.  And  at  Rome  — 
Italie,  vous  savez  —  as  he  stood  after  his  last  farewell, 
with  his  hand  upon  his  bosom  —  so  —  the  ladies  threw 
their  earrings  and  bracelets  at  the  feet  of  him." 

When  Irving  had  departed,  Madame  locked  the  door, 
and,  from  a  dark  cabinet,  drew  forth  certain  mysterious 
concoctions.  Then  Monsieur  sat  down,  with  a  towel 
tucked  under  his  celebrated  throat,  and  Madame  pro- 
ceeded to  knead,  manipulate,  and  tinge  the  long  blonde 
locks  which  her  ever-watchful  eyes  had  detected  in  gray 
treachery.  For  it  was  not  yesterday  that  Monsieur  had 
sung  for  the  Queen,  so  good  and  very  large. 

At  noon,  the  next  day,  Irving  hurried  to  the  West 
Side  to  prepare  Mr.  Burl  for  an  evening  of  pleasure, 
and  also  to  take  a  hasty  luncheon  from  his  tins.  Mr. 
Burl  had  already  set  forth  for  his  old-fogy  club,  so  the 
luncheon  was  consumed  hastily,  and  rather  more  noisily 
than  usual.  Above  the  clink  of  bottles  and  jars,  rose 
the  young  man's  voice  in  a  little  Italian  song.  He  and 
Jessie  had  picked  it  up  from  the  waiters  of  a  happy- 
go-lucky  lunch-stand,  no  matter  where,  no  matter  when, 
since,  as  he  sang  it,  he  did  not  once  think  of  Jessie.  Soft 
mush  he  made  of  the  syllables  —  the  only  way  to  show 
proficiency  in  modern  tongues.  To  think  that  he  could 

[108] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

sing  that  song  without  one  souvenir  of  Jessie's  smile, 
Jessie's  voice,  Jessie's  roundness  —  oh,  the  wonder 
of  it! 

Suddenly  his  ears  were  assailed  by  a  marvellously 
sweet,  fresh  voice,  such  as  one  may  imagine  issuing  from 
the  heart  of  a  dewy  rose  — "  Agostino !  /  hear  you, 
Agostino  !  You  are  in  that  corner.  But  you  '11  not  es- 
cape me  this  time." 

The  voice  sounded  in  the  studio,  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  screen.  Irving  no  longer  sang.  He  stood 
open-mouthed,  petrified.  The  name  Agostino  swept  his 
mind  back  to  the  day  of  the  Nathan  Hale  monument, 
and  the  letter  from  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse.  The  Italian  who 
did  not  wish  his  cigar  smoked  by  the  socialist,  was 
called  Agostino.  Irving  remorsefully  reflected  that,  in 
his  hurry  to  tell  Mr.  Burl  about  Monsieur  du  Pays,  he 
had  forgotten  to  look  for  the  bicycle-lamp  in  the  win- 
dow. That  was  natural  since,  having  never  once  found 
it,  he  had  ceased  to  fear  its  presence  on  the  window-sill. 
Possibly  the  lamp  was  there,  now,  and  its  ineffectual 
warning  had  been  intended  to  prevent  his  meeting  the 
owner  of  the  sweet,  fresh  voice,  the  voice  of  a  dewy  rose. 
Probably  the  owner  of  that  voice  was  the  "  person " 
who  had  dispossessed  him  of  the  spare  bedroom.  If  so, 
Mr.  Burl  had  resolved  upon  keeping  them  apart. 

"  I  see  you  now !  "  exclaimed  the  voice,  with  manifest 
license  of  conjecture.  She  gave  vent  to  the  merriest 

I  of  laughing  trills.     What  a  happy  voice  —  but  above 
all,  what  a  freshness  permeated  its  deep-throated  timbre! 
[109] 


Something  Else 

It  suggested  fragrant  fields  under  summer  skies.  "  You 
might  just  as  well  come  out,"  the  voice  continued.  "  I 
will  wait  here  all  day,  if  necessary." 

That  was  much  longer  than  Irving  could  wait,  no 
matter  how  displeased  Mr.  Burl  might  prove.  Besides, 
in  spite  of  the  possibility  that  the  lamp  was  in  the  win- 
dow, and  that  the  lamp  meant  avoidance  of  this  girl, 
and  that  it  was  to  Mr.  Burl's  interests  to  prevent  a 
meeting,  Irving  yielded  to  a  certainty  —  namely,  that  he 
must  see  this  speaker.  He  hastily  put  on  his  coat, 
closed  his  window,  snatched  up  the  nickel-plated  coffee- 
urn  to  sight  at  his  grotesque  reflection,  and  was  moved 
thereby  to  indiscreet  mirth. 

She  heard  the  half -smothered  chuckle,  and  grew  com- 
ically severe.  "  I  knew  I  'd  find  you  here ! "  she  de- 
clared. "  Shame  on  you,  Agostino !  " 

Desire  to  see  the  speaker  called  him  forth ;  the  neces- 
sity for  presently  returning  to  the  office  commanded. 
He  issued  from  his  den.  "  I  am  not  Agostino,"  he  said, 
with  deep  humility,  "  but  I  am  greatly  'shamed." 

She  was  standing  by  the  blue-and-gold  vase,  one  hand 
lightly  resting  against  the  rim,  which  rose  above  her 
shoulder.  She  had  cast  her  wraps  over  the  back  of  the 
nearest  chair.  Her  cheeks  were  stained  red  from  the  nip- 
ping January  air,  while  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the 
sparkle  of  the  outside  world,  as  if  she  had  brought  its 
frosty  brilliance  into  the  sombre  studio,  and,  by  the 
warmth  of  her  being,  had  melted  the  cold  brightness  to  a 
sunny  glow. 

"  Then  — "  she  began,  as  if  to  catch  up  his  words. 
[110] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

Her  lips,  parted  in  amused  surprise,  and  her  eyes,  never 
faltering,  mutely  finished  the  question. 

Irving  laughed  as  he  gave  his  name  —  laughed  at 
himself  for  being  caught,  and  at  her  for  the  dumb  sur- 
prise, and  at  fate  for  bringing  about  the  meeting. 

She  was  of  that  rare  type  of  womanhood  that  inspires 
a  sense  of  fellowship,  even  admiration,  without  a  neces- 
sary accompaniment  of  sentiment.  Probably  her  art- 
ist's working-dress  —  the  blue  blouse  with  its  rolling 
turned-down  collar,  and  the  business-like  yacht  cap  — 
had  much  to  do  in  forming  Irving's  impression.  He 
found  something  boyish  in  her  attitude,  perhaps  the  ef- 
fect of  great  independence  of  character,  suggesting 
that  sex  was  not  her  dominant  quality,  and  might  be 
disregarded  in  summing  up  her  essentials.  His  concep- 
tion was  strengthened  by  her  form,  tall  and  sturdily 
built,  and  by  her  serene  air  of  self -poise.  There  seemed 
nothing  weak  about  her,  yet  nothing  bold. 

Charmingly  at  variance  with  this  dominant  note,  was 
the  full  Southern  face,  with  its  merry,  slightly  raised, 
slightly  projecting  upper  lip;  and  the  deep,  sweeping 
lashes;  and  the  glorious  richness  of  hair;  and  the  eyes 
which,  however  independent,  could  not  help  being  of  a 
luminous  brown,  essentially  feminine. 

"  Miss  Adams,"  she  said,  with  an  intermingling  of  the 
stranger's  interest,  or  curiosity,  and  the  stranger's  re- 
serve. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Irving,  his  handsome  face  lighting  up, 
"  then  I  have  at  last  met  you.  You  are,  of  course,  Dr. 
Lewis  Adams's  granddaughter  ?  " 

cm] 


Something  Else 

She  smiled  whimsically.  "  But  why  am  I  a  matter  of 
course,  when  you  are  a  mystery?"  She  was  younger 
than  Irving,  but  felt  older,  and  as  sure  of  him  as  of  her- 
self. She  felt  that  if  he  should  ever  shake  hands  with 
her,  his  arm  would  move  through  space  in  the  shortest 
line  from  his  heart,  not  in  an  arc  of  any  social  mode. 
In  truth,  with  those  penetrating  brown  eyes,  she  saw  to 
the  bottom  stratum  of  his  nature ;  saw  quite  through 
those  superfluous  layers  which  he  believed  to  be  his  true 
self. 

"  I,  a  mystery  ?  "  Irving  exclaimed,  ruefully.  "  But 
has  n't  your  grandfather,  or  Mr.  Burl,  told  you  about 
me?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  unable  to  hide  her  amusement  at 
his  disconcerted  air,  but  ready  to  believe  anything  he 
might  say :  not  because  she  had  seen  so  little  of  the  world 
as  to  be  credulous,  but  because  she  had  seen  enough  of 
it  to  have  faith.  She  asked,  "  Why  not  tell  me,  your- 
self? "  Then  her  rippling  laughter  was  heard,  like 
those  meadowbrooks  in  the  sun  that  purl  in  our  mem- 
ories of  childhood. 

The  young  man  expostulated :  "  As  often  as  I  have 
heard  of  you!  And  they  have  never  mentioned  me  to 
you?  I  have  never  been  here  when  those  two  life-long 
friends  were  sitting  yonder  in  the  armchairs,  that  they 
did  n't  treat  me  to  anecdotes  of  Winifred  Adams. 
Did  n't  you  know,  during  my  university  days,  about  my 
coming  here  to  —  to  —  I  mean  about  that  screened-in 
corner,  yonder,  and  my  —  and  why  it  was  there?  " 

"  Never,  to  all  your  questions,"  responded  Winifred 
[112] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

Adams,  waving  her  strong,  full  arm  as  if  to  sweep  his 
doubts  into  the  gigantic  vase. 

"  How  insignificant  I  must  appear  to  others  !  "  Irving 
murmured. 

The  playfulness  in  her  eyes  engulfed  the  stranger's 
reserve.  "  But  this  leaves  you  entirely  free  to  tell  your 
story  in  your  own  way,"  she  suggested. 

"  I  am  dreadfully  handicapped,  nevertheless,"  he  re- 
turned, snatching  at  his  watch.  "  I  '11  soon  be  whistled 
to  Broadway.  And  we  've  been  so  long  meeting,  I  'm 
afraid  it  may  not  happen  again,  since  Mr.  Burl  and  Dr. 
Adams  are  so  secretive.  I  know  of  your  studio  in  the 
attic  of  your  home  near  Madison  Square,  and  of  your 
pictures,  and  exhibitions.  Mr.  Burl  is  as  proud  of  your 
work  as  /  am ;  he  and  I  used  to  celebrate  whenever  you 
scored  a  success  ;  I  am  one  of  that  admiring  and  unknown 
public  that  you  may  have  heard  of.  And  I  know  how 
your  grandfather  took  you  to  Paris  when  you  were  only 
fifteen  years  old  —  and  I  know  how  long  ago  that  was." 

"  How  alarmingly  well-known  I  am !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  return  of  her  reserve.  She  walked  to  the  fire- 
place, as  if  to  step  out  of  the  conversation. 

"  And  how  when  you  were  only  three  years  old,"  Ir- 
ving chuckled,  "  one  day  your  grandfather  bought  you 
a  long  cane  of  stick-candy,  and  you  said  to  him,  '  G'an- 
papa,  is  oo  doin'— 

Winifred  turned  and  made  a  face  at  him,  by  pouting 
out  the  under  lip,  and  drawing  down  the  upper  lip  —  a 
most  charming  moue  that  made  him  burst  into  delighted 
laughter.  Her  facial  rebuke  had  been  given  without 

[113] 


Something  Else 

design.  She  was  so  surprised  at  what  she  had  done,  that 
she  joined  in  his  laugh,  as  if  both  had  been  caught  in  a 
naughty  prank.  Then,  in  an  effort  to  recapture  her 
shattered  dignity,  she  asked  with  a  merry  little  frown, 

"  Did  n't  Agostino  come  here  to-day  ?  —  a  low,  heavy- 
set  Italian  with  a  mustache  — " 

"'I  haven't  seen  him;  Mr.  Burl  will  know." 

And  here  was  Mr.  Burl  entering  from  the  outer  land- 
ing, his  step  heavy  and  slow,  his  face  darkly  thoughtful. 
At  sight  of  them,  he  stopped  abruptly,  stared  with  un- 
wavering eyes,  while  his  white  mustache  bristled  above 
his  white  goatee. 

Once  more  Irving  remembered  about  the  bicycle-lamp. 
His  eager  voice  betrayed  some  nervousness  as  he  ex- 
claimed, accusingly,  "  And  you  never  told  Miss  Adams 
about  me ! " 

At  the  same  moment,  Winifred  asked,  showing  greater 
eagerness,  "  Uncle  Christopher !  Have  you  seen  any- 
thing of  Agostino  ?  "  She  laughed  because  Irving  had 
almost  drowned  out  her  words,  then  added,  as  an  after- 
thought, "  How  do  you  do,  Uncle  Christopher?  " 

Mr.  Burl's  stern  face  slightly  relaxed,  while  his  eyes 
grew  at  least  twenty  years  younger.  He  came  forward 
briskly,  exclaiming,  "  Well,  well,  well !  "  He  laid  a  hand 
on  each  of  Winifred's  shoulders.  "  Come !  "  and  he 
pushed  her  to  the  armchair.  "  Sit  you  down,  Sunbeam. 
Well,  well,  well !  What  a  happy  surprise !  "  So  he 
was  not  angry,  after  all.  There  was  no  bicycle-lamp  in 
the  window. 

"  No  doubt  you  are  surprised,"  she  said,  with  pre- 
[114] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

tended  severity.  "  Have  you  stolen  my  model?  Oh, 
Uncle  Christopher,  what  plagiarism !  I  'm  sure  there  's 
not  another  Italian  in  Mulberry  Bend  quite  so  villain- 
ous looking  as  my  own  Agostino.  And  I  found  him 
first,"  she  added  reproachfully. 

The  muscles  in  the  lower  part  of  Mr.  Burl's  face 
slightly  quivered  —  a  treat  in  the  laughing-way,  that  he 
seldom  permitted  himself.  "  You  '11  have  to  find  another 
dago,"  he  said,  briefly.  "  The  Black  Handers,  not  I, 
are  after  your  prize.  He  's  frightened  to  death,  and  is 
hiding  —  don't  breathe  it,  if  you  value  his  life  at  a 
straw  —  in  the  home  of  a  New  Jersey  tugboat  captain 
—  Silas  Payne.  By  the  way,"  he  added  indifferently, 
not  as  if  he  had  just  thought  of  it,  but  as  if  it  didn't 
matter,  "  Captain  Silas  Payne  is  this  young  man's  — 
what  do  you  say  ?  —  foster-father." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  be  brought  into  this,"  remarked  Irving, 
who  had  been  holding  aloof,  "  even  if  the  connecting 
chain  is  Agostino.  But  I  did  n't  know  father  Payne 
had  ever  seen  this  Italian.  I  have  n't  heard  him  men- 
tioned." 

Mr.  Burl  turned  to  Winifred,  as  if  Irving  didn't 
count.  "  So  you  wonder  that  I  never  told  you  about 
this  fellow  ?  "  He  nodded  with  the  back  of  his  head  at 
the  young  man.  "  Well,  well,  well !  I  'm  surely  glad 
to  see  you,  Sunbeam.  Shall  I  tell  you  about  him  now  ?  " 

"  Do ! "  cried  Winifred,  nestling  down  in  the  great 
chair,  and  drawing  Mr.  Burl  beside  her.  They  were  not 
related,  hence  her  "  Uncle  Christopher  "  was  a  signal 
honor.  "  I  have  already  suspected  that  he  has  a  strange 

[115] 


Something  Else 

and  hidden  story.  But  say  the  very  best  for  him  that 
you  conscientiously  can,  Uncle  Christopher."  She 
looked  down  at  the  hem  of  her  blue  blouse,  as  if  ready 
for  anything. 

"  Here  is  a  young  man,  risking  being  late  at  the  of- 
fice," began  Mr.  Burl,  severely,  "  who,  all  his  life,  has 
looked  upon  pleasure  as  the  only  —  but  no !  I  shall  tell 
you  nothing."  Mr.  Burl  interrupted  himself,  impa- 
tiently. "  This  is  my  friend,  this  Irving  Payne,  a  good 
fellow  through  and  through,  whether  he  ever  does  any- 
thing, or  not." 

"But  the  story?"  Winifred  demanded,  looking  up 
searchingly. 

"  You  'd  think  no  more  of  him  if  you  heard  it,"  said 
the  other,  "  and  that 's  why  it  has  never  been  told  you." 

"  But  Mr.  Burl !  "  Irving  remonstrated  with  a  flushed 
face.  His  laugh  was  forced,  for,  oddly  enough,  the 
word  "  pleasure  "  had  given  him  pain. 

She  regarded  the  young  man  with  a  pensive,  studious 
gaze  which  showed  no  consciousness  of  the  rich  golden 
beauty  of  her  brown  eyes,  or  the  handsome  features, 
manly  yet  embarrassed,  that  he  held  half -averted. 

"  But  it 's  all  your  point  of  view,  Sunbeam,"  Mr.  Burl 
explained,  indulgently.  "  You  see,  a  sunbeam  can't  un- 
derstand a  shadow,  being  altogether  outside  of  its  world. 
I  might  tell  you  how  romantic  a  shadow  may  be;  but 
what 's  the  use  ?  You  are  a  Sunbeam." 

"  Then,"  said  Winifred,  thoughtfully,  "  Mr.  Payne  - 
is  he  altogether  outside  of  my  world?  " 

[116] 


Strange  Meeting  in  the  Studio 

"  So  far  outside,"  said  Mr.  Burl,  with  conviction, 
"  that  he  does  n't  know  your  world  exists !  " 

"  Oh,  then  — "  said  Winifred.  It  was  as  if  to  say, 
"  Good-bye ! "  with  one's  handkerchief,  waving  it  from 
deck,  over  an  ever-widening  sea. 

Irving  felt  hurt.  He  looked  at  his  watch  again,  then 
spoke  with  a  gravity  that  may  have  been  just  a  little 
exaggerated :  "  I  came  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Burl,  that  I  've 
arranged  to  have  the  friend  I  spoke  to  you  about  — 
Monsieur  du  Pays  —  the  man  with  the  magnificent 
voice  —  you  remember?  —  he  will  come  to  sing  for 
you,  to-night.  And  we  '11  have  a  violin,  too.  I  believe 
you  '11  like  it." 

"  How  fine !  "  cried  Winifred,  looking  at  Irving  again, 
her  brow  showing  a  puzzled  wrinkle.  "  Grandfather  and 
I  have  planned  to  spend  the  evening  here.  Will  your 
friend  mind  singing  for  us  ?  "  She  turned  to  her  host : 
"  Or  shall  we  put  off  our  visit?  " 

"Put  off  your  visit?  Put  away  such  an  idea!  No, 
no,  this  boy  is  always  doing  something  to  enliven  me. 
It 's  often  like  blowing  at  a  dead  coal,  eh,  Irving  ?  But 
I  appreciate  his  intentions,  even  when  I  don't  appreciate 
the  music.  You  won't  mind  Dr.  Adams  and  his  grand- 
daughter, will  you,  boy?  " 

"  Uncle  Christopher,"  Winifred  suggested,  "  maybe 
he  is  a  sunbeam  too !  " 

"  He  beams  like  one,"  remarked  Mr.  Burl,  dryly. 

Irving  was,  indeed,  radiant  at  the  sudden  prospect  that 
opened  up  before  his  mental  vision.  Alas!  he  was 

[117] 


Something  Else 

obliged  to  make  a  dive  for  the  door.  He  called  back, 
en  route,  "  Mr.  Burl!  Please  don't  prejudice  the  jury 
in  the  prisoner's  absence." 

Mr.  Burl  pursed  his  lips.  "  I  promise  not  even  to 
refer  to  you,  till  you  show  your  face  this  evening." 

Winifred  called,  "And  shall  I  promise  not  even  to 
think  of  you?" 

He  need  not  have  shouted  his  protest  as  he  almost  fell 
down  the  outside  stairs.  Winifred  did  not  make  prom- 
ises that  she  knew  would  not  be  kept. 


[118] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ITALIAN    SPY 

THAT  evening,  Irving  visited  a  restaurant  before 
his  return  to  Weehawken  Street.  The  precau- 
tion was  well  taken;  for,  when  he  entered  the 
studio  (the  bicycle-lamp  was  not  displayed),  there  sat 
Winifred  Adams  in  the  armchair,  just  as  he  had  left 
her.  Dr.  Adams  had  been  called  away ;  but  Christopher 
Burl,  pipe  in  mouth,  was  marching  from  the  blue-and- 
gold  vase  to  the  skeleton,  then  back  again. 

"  Go  ahead  and  boil  your  cocoa,  Irving,"  said  Mr. 
Burl,  with  the  tactless  practicality  of  the  old.  "  Don't 
mind  us.  Do  your  cheese-and-cracker  stunt,  then  come 
join  us." 

Winifred  opened  her  eyes  wide. 

"  I  have  eaten,"  said  Irving,  with  dignity.  The  next 
moment  he  laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "  Well !  "  he 
added,  "  I  wish,  after  all,  I  'd  let  you  tell  the  story  be- 
fore the  real  trouble  happened  in.  Go  ahead,  Mr.  Burl, 
and  relieve  the  tension.'5 

"  I  've  been  dying  from  curiosity  all  afternoon,"  mur- 
mured Winifred,  "  so  you  can  well  understand  that  I  'm 
now  exhausted." 

"  The  story  we  are  about  to  tell,"  Mr.  Burl  began, 
with  portentous  gravity,  "  deals  with  a  man  named 

[119] 


Something  Else 

Irving  Payne.  After  he  had  lived  to  the  age  of  —  how 
long  do  you  want  to  live,  Irving?  We  '11  give  you  every 
advantage." 

Irving  was  about  to  answer,  that  after  thirty-five,  it 
was  immaterial,  but  remembered  that  his  friend  was  much 
worse  than  that.  He  said  nothing.  But  he  was  in- 
tensely alive  to  new  impressions.  He  would  not  have 
thought  it  possible  that  the  great  armchair  could  ever 
frame  so  fair  a  picture.  The  splendid  brown  hair  was 
turned  to  the  gold  of  the  brown  eyes,  by  the  rosy  hearth- 
flames.  The  pure  white  of  her  cheeks  was  rendered  daz- 
zling by  the  swinging  lights.  The  height  and  solidarity 
of  her  form  gave  her  impressiveness ;  she  was  not  one  to 
be  lost  in  an  armchair,  however  large  and  cushiony.  In 
changing  from  the  artist's  blouse  and  cap  to  simple  at- 
tire, she  had  changed,  seemingly,  from  the  comrade  to 
the  woman.  She  was  a  woman  in  every  feature  of  her 
alert  face,  in  every  movement  of  the  long  limbs,  the 
strong  bust,  the  flexible  fingers.  But  her  womanliness 
had  none  of  the  shrinking  shyness,  the  difficult  hesita- 
tion, of  a  vanished  age.  It  was  a  womanliness  that 
passed  judgment  upon  men  and  events,  because  she  had 
taken  her  place  among  men  of  affairs,  to  help  to  mould 
the  events  of  the  future,  wielding  her  brush  as  Joan  had 
wielded  her  sword,  holding  her  place  in  the  front  ranks 
of  the  world's  workers,  as  Joan  had  once  led  in  battle. 

The  impression  upon  Irving  —  it  had  dwelt  with  him 
all  that  afternoon,  at  the  office  —  was  the  more  marked 
because  Winifred's  essentials  were  not  his  own.  He  felt 
that  Mr.  Burl  had  spoken  with  truth,  though  the  truth 

[120] 


The  Italian  Spy 

was  exaggerated.  He  was,  indeed,  outside  of  this  young 
woman's  world;  but  it  was  not  a  world  whose  existence 
was  unknown  to  him.  He  knew  it  just  as  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  some  history  in  many  volumes  —  Hume, 
or  Grote,  or  Guizot,  or  Bancroft.  He  knew  what  was 
to  be  found  in  such  reading,  just  as  he  knew  what  was 
to  be  met  in  Winifred's  world.  But  the  knowledge  had 
never  inspired  a  spirit  of  investigation. 

Mr.  Burl  resumed:  "When  the  subject  of  our  sketch 
died,  at  the  end  of  a  very,  very  long  life,  it  was  said  of 
him  that  he  had  cheered  the  lives  of  those  with  whom 
he  came  in  personal  contact;  that  he  had  a  pleasant 
smile,  and  was  good  and  honest ;  and  that  he  now  shares 
the  oblivion  which  is  the  penalty  one  pays  for  entering 
paradise.  And  that  is  the  whole  story  of  Irving  Payne." 

Irving  laughed  a  little  ruefully,  but  Winifred  did  not 
even  smile. 

Then  with  subtle  diplomacy,  Irving  broached  a  scheme 
which  he  had  perfected  between  breaths  in  the  railroad 
office.  "  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said  impersonally 
—  it  is  not  good  policy  to  appear  anxious  for  accept- 
ance of  terms  — "  that  your  story,  the  true  story  of 
Irving  Payne,  might  be  slightly  enlarged  before  the 
obituary.  I  was  acquainted  with  this  colorless  mortal, 
and  I  knew  that  he  meant  to  visit  home  next  Sunday, 
where  he  would  no  doubt  see  Agostino,  Agostino  the 
wonderful  Italian  model." 

"  How  I  envy  you !  "  Winifred  exclaimed.  "  Do  you 
know,  I  have  him  more  than  half-painted  into  a  great 
picture  —  I  mean  great  in  size  — " 

[121] 


Something  Else 

Mr.  Burl  interposed  with,  "  You  mean  nothing  of  the 
sort!" 

Winifred  continued,  her  chin  showing  how  completely 
the  artist  was  disdained :  "  And  it 's  maddening  to  be 
compelled  to  sit  idle,  while  my  brain  is  burning  up  my 
plan  to  crinkled  paper.  You  know  what  it  is  to  be 
obliged  to  do  nothing  when  you  want  to  work  —  work 
—  oh !  "  she  concluded,  with  astonishing  energy. 

Did  Irving  know?  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  knew  you 
felt  so.  The  part  of  the  story  that  Mr.  Burl  has 
omitted  is  this :  If  you  and  he,  or  if  you  and  your  grand- 
father will  go  home  with  me,  Sunday  afternoon,  we  '11 
force  a  compromise  with  Agostino.  If  the  old  ro- 
mances are  true,  nothing  so  delights  Italians  as  slipping 
about  in  the  dead  of  night  to  enter  houses  at  secret 
signals.  Agostino  will  come  to  be  painted,  I  'm  sure, 
if  he  may  do  so  stealthily." 

"  But  if  you  know  him,"  responded  Winifred,  doubt- 
fully, "  couldn't  you  induce  him  to  form  the  plot?  If 
you  would !  "  And  her  eyes  sparkled. 

Irving  waved  away  the  suggestion.  "  Not  without 
you,"  he  said  decidedly.  "  I  don't  know  him  at  all.  I 
could  n't  influence  him  in  the  least.  But  you  — " 

They  were  discussing  this  idea  when  the  brisk  step 
of  Winifred's  grandfather  was  heard  without.  He  en- 
tered breezily  —  a  smooth-shaven,  kind-faced  man  of 
seventy.  His  white  hair  was  parted  carefully  in  the  mid- 
dle, while  in  a  straight  course  with  that  popular  line  of 
short  division,  was  a  youthful  dimple  in  his  chin.  His 
manner  suggested  that  in  youth  he  had  stored  up  a 


The  Italian  Spy 

great  quantity  of  reserved  vital-force  for  these  very 
days. 

Irving  knew  that  Winifred's  parents  were  dead,  and 
that  she  lived  with  her  grandfather  in  the  big  house 
northwest  of  Madison  Square.  Winifred,  seeing  their 
friendly  footing,  cried  out  that  only  a  conspiracy  on  the 
part  of  Dr.  Adams  and  Mr.  Burl  had  kept  her  from 
hearing  of  Mr.  Payne. 

"  And  he  has  a  story !  "  cried  Winifred,  accusingly. 
"  Uncle  Christopher  won't  tell  it  right,  and  grandfather 
has  never  told  it  at  all." 

Dr.  Adams  leaned  an  elbow  upon  his  knee,  propped  a 
plump  cheek  upon  his  knuckles  in  a  self-conscious  atti- 
tude, as  if  for  a  photographer.  He  looked  into  the 
fire.  "  I  don't  know  Mr.  Payne's  story.  As  for  Chris, 
he  never  could  tell  anything  straight." 

Christopher  Burl  retorted  with  exceeding  gruffness, 
"  I  've  never  learned  to  soften  my  stories  for  weak 
brains."  Then  he  looked  sidewise  at  his  old  friend,  and 
thrust  forward  his  goatee,  like  a  mastiff  awaiting  at- 
tack. 

The  doctor  remarked  that  attitude,  and  said,  "  /  don't 
want  your  bone !  " 

The  ostensible  rudeness  of  these  life-long  friends  to 
each  other,  and  their  courtly  deference  to  Winifred, 
amused  and  touched  Irving.  The  elders  delighted  in 
nothing  so  much  as  chaffing  each  other  with  rather  heavy 
jibes  —  these  points,  however,  always  wore  foils:  but 
they  were  not  mocking  each  other  so  much  as  they  were 
mocking  old  age.  When  Dr.  Adams  and  "  Uncle  Chris- 

[123] 


Something  Else 

topher "  vied  with  each  other  in  showing  Winifred 
honor,  it  was  not  as  the  old  regard  the  young,  but  as 
if  she  were  able  to  rekindle  those  coals  of  youth  which 
lie  smothered,  or  haply  glowing,  in  the  hearts  of  the 
oldest  of  us. 

Irving  began  to  fear  that  Winifred  might  suspect 
some  dark  thread  in  his  life-history.  "  I  '11  tell  it  my- 
self," he  declared. 

"  Tell  it,  tell  it !  "  cried  Dr.  Adams.  "  We  '11  swear 
to  every  word,  won't  we,  Chris  ?  " 

"  Like  troopers,"  Mr.  Burl  declared. 

They  made  a  charming  picture  about  the  enormous 
fireplace,  their  faces  reddened  by  the  up-leaping  flames, 
their  hair  touched  to  gold  or  snow,  by  the  lights  swing- 
ing from  naked  rafters.  Back  of  them  were  the  dusky 
nooks  of  the  studio,  their  mysterious  shadows  playing 
along  the  barnlike  walls,  or  fleeting  over  the  glimmering 
floor.  Winifred  occupied  the  centre  of  the  hearth-arc, 
with  Mr.  Burl  on  her  right,  his  pipe  taking  transitory 
visits  from  mouth  to  knee ;  and,  on  her  other  side,  Dr. 
Adams,  apparently  enjoying  his  photographic  pose. 
Irving,  of  course,  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  his 
face  softened  by  brown  shadow. 

"  When  I  met  Mr.  Burl,  three  years  ago,"  said  Irving, 
"  it  was  like  meeting  some  one  I  'd  always  known.  I 
can't  tell  you  exactly  how,  but  pretty  soon  he  knew 
everything  about  me,  and  I  knew  as  much  of  him  as  I 
know  to-night  —  and  that 's  almost  nothing." 

"  Nothing  about  him  to  know,"  Dr.  Adams  inter- 
jected; "  he  's  only  a  paint-brush  and  a  stomach." 

[124] 


The  Italian  Spy 

"  Into  which  stomach,"  Mr.  Burl  commented,  "  none 
of  this  doctor's  pills  will  ever  be  pumped !  " 

"  I  was  attending  the  university,"  Irving  continued. 
"  I  was  always  running  out  of  my  allowance,  though 
father  Payne  was  pretty  generous.  I  don't  know  why, 
for  I  kept  account  of  every  penny  —  I  have  the  little 
books  showing  everything  I  've  spent  for  the  past  five 
years.  It  went  somehow."  He  laughed.  Then  in  a 
light  tone  he  told  of  his  cookery  in  the  studio,  of  his 
transitory  flights  into  the  upper  world,  of  his  recoup- 
ments, his  present  eclipse.  All  was  gay,  cheerful,  nat- 
ural. Why  save,  except  to  spend?  After  spending, 
what  is  left,  except  to  save?  It  was  an  endless  round  of 
the  wheel  of  life.  He  kept  it  oiled  as  best  he  might,  till 
it  reached  its  highest  point.  After  that  —  well,  down 
it  had  to  come,  of  course,  sinking  from  its  own  weight  — 
the  specific  gravity  of  necessity  that  holds  poor  mortals 
to  the  earth's  surface. 

Winifred,  with  hands  clasped  about  her  knee,  listened 
with  steadfast  gravity. 

"And  what  is  ahead?"  inquired  Dr.  Adams,  inter- 
estedly. 

Mr.  Burl  turned  upon  him :  "  Just  what  is  behind, 
simpleton ! " 

Irving  laughed :  "  I  ask  nothing  better,"  he  declared. 
"  After  the  drudgery  of  the  railroad  office  —  horrid 
monotony !  —  or  the  cut-off  existence  of  a  river  tug,  I 
suddenly  plunge  into  real  life ;  I  find  a  new  pair  of  lungs 
to  breathe  with,  like  an  extra  pair  of  bellows  in  a  cramped 
blacksmith's  shop.  You  three  won't  understand  this. 

[125] 


Something  Else 

You  could  enjoy  that  true  life  every  day.  But  suppose 
you  longed  for  it  all  the  time  —  the  true  life  —  and 
could  peep  into  it  only  once  a  month  or  so ;  then  you  'd 
understand  why  I  'm  willing  to  live  a  sort  of  grub-life 
between  flying-days.  I  don't  feel  that  all  of  me  is  at 
work,  in  my  obscurity;  but  when  I  emerge,  every  fibre 
of  me  is  alive." 

Dr.  Adams  changed  his  pose,  to  lay  a  hand  upon 
Winifred's  strong  arm.  "  This  girl  of  mine,"  he  said, 
"  belongs  by  rights  to  what  you  call  *  real  life.'  She 
was  born  into  it,  and  has  the  means.  Do  you  see  how 
white  my  hair  is  ?  That  comes  from  trying  to  persuade 
her  to  take  her  place  in  society  —  to  give  up  daubing 
and  smearing  and  finger-staining  and  making  some 
rather  remarkable  pictures,  by  the  way.  But  she  won't 
listen.  She  won't  spend  her  time  sitting  up  to  be  vis- 
ited, or  going  to  visit  people  she  does  n't  want  to  see. 
I  've  had  to  give  her  up."  He  shook  her  arm  playfully, 
crying,  "  Oh,  you  little  grub !  " 

"  Yes ! "  Mr.  Burl  echoed,  catching  her  other  hand, 
"  you  little  grub !  Why  do  you  renounce  dinners  and 
theatre-parties  and  balls  and  week-ends  —  in  a  word, 
'  real  life ' —  to  waste  your  time  in  cheering  up  the  old 
heart  of  this  prerfieer  of  Grub  Street?  Just  because  you 
are  a  grub,  as  Irving  says.  But  come,  Sunbeam,  I  know 
you  must  have  your  flying-days  — "  And  he  lifted  her 
up  by  the  force  of  his  sinewy  arm. 

"  We  fly !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Adams,  also  rising.  The 
two  old  fellows  started  on  a  run  down  the  studio,  drag- 
ging the  laughing  Winifred  along  between  them. 

[126] 


The  Italian  Spy 

"  Up  and  down !  "  cried  Mr.  Burl,  his  nimble  legs 
oddly  at  variance  with  the  stern,  business-like  aspect  of 
his  overhanging  brows  and  fixed  mouth.  The  boyish 
countenance  of  the  doctor  glowed  under  the  middle 
parting  of  his  white  hair;  and  the  dimple  in  his  chin 
deepened.  Winifred's  skirts  swayed  protestingly  as  her 
tall  form  was  propelled  violently  through  space.  Her 
cheeks  reddened ;  were  there  ever  softer,  more  finely  mod- 
ulated fields  of  satin,  for  the  growing  of  red  roses? 
Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  the  broad  curves  of  perfect 
health;  and  when  she  laughed,  her  voice  came  to  Irving 
with  the  fragrant  suggestion  of  the  heart  of  a  dewy 
rose. 

"  Now  to  the  skeleton !  "  said  Mr.  Burl  sternly.  When 
they  reached  that  ghastly  trophy,  the  artist  stared  hard 
at  the  grinning  skull.  "  We  're  no  kin  of  yours,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"  We  don't  know  you,"  cried  Dr.  Adams. 

But  Winifred  said  nothing;  and  Irving  noticed,  when 
the  men  were  again  seated,  that  she  paused  behind  her 
grandfather's  chair,  and  stooped  to  rest  her  blooming 
cheek  against  the  snow  of  his  hair. 

When  all  were  in  perfect  breath,  Irving's  project  was 
broached.  Dr.  Adams  at  once  agreed  to  accompany 
the  young  man  Sunday  afternoon,  in  quest  of  Agostino, 
whereupon  Winifred's  hesitation  vanished.  The  adven- 
ture into  Jersey  assumed  the  guise  of  a  holiday  excur- 
sion. They  discussed  the  details  with  enthusiasm ; 
Irving  was  enchanted.  What  a  day  it  would  be,  with  the 
old  doctor  by  his  side  —  to  say  nothing  of  Winifred ! 

[127] 


Something  Else 

It  was  half -past  eight  when  footsteps  were  heard,  and 
Monsieur  du  Pays  was  presented  to  the  party.  The 
once  famous  tenor  was  followed  soon  after  by  the 
French  restaurateur,  Chartier  by  name,  who  has  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  do  with  this  story,  except  to  distract 
us  with  his  violin.  For  although  Chartier  brought  his 
hired  violinist  to  accompany  Du  Pays,  he  could  not  for- 
bear the  temptation  to  bring  his  own  tormenting  instru- 
ment. It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  taken  a  holiday 
from  his  restaurant,  a  long  time  since  he  had  drawn  the 
bow.  He  meant  to  hear  Du  Pays  and  amuse  himself  at 
the  same  time.  At  sight  of  Winifred,  Du  Pays  had 
grown  straighter,  had  shaken  the  blonde  locks  from  his 
leonine  brow,  as  if  his  throat  were  endowed  with  strength 
from  Sampson's  hair.  But  Chartier,  eager  only  to  play, 
seated  himself  abruptly,  motioned  to  the  first  violin  of 
his  restaurant  orchestra  to  do  the  same,  and  arranged 
his  rack  with  feverish  activity. 

A  dark  and  silent  form  had  halted  at  the  door,  sep- 
arated by  the  length  of  the  apartment  from  the  lights. 
It  was  Pasquale,  he  of  the  Italian  restaurant.  Irving 
wondered  at  his  presence,  and  Pasquale  himself,  know- 
ing he  had  no  business  there,  looked  mean  and  evasive. 

"  He  would  come,"  said  Chartier,  nodding  his  head 
toward  the  motionless  figure.  "  He  follows.  I  say  to 
him  that  I  come  here  to  accompany  a  great  singer  that 
I  learn  about,  it  may  be  to  engage  him  for  my  restau- 
rant. Pasquale  say,  '  I  come  also.'  I  say,  '  But  no.' 
It  is  in  vain.  Here  we  have  him." 

Pasquale  did  not  utter  a  sound. 
[128] 


The  Italian  Spy 

Then  the  hired  musician  spoke,  the  middle-aged  man 
with  the  red,  good-natured  face :  "  I  told  him  that  I 
did  n't  think  you  'd  want  him  here,  and  I  knew  we  did  n't ; 
but  we  could  n't  do  a  thing  with  him,  this  Pasquale." 

Pasquale  moistened  his  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
looked  shiftily  toward  Irving's  screened-in  corner,  as  if 
suspecting  it  of  caging  a  wild  beast,  and  remained  dis- 
creetly silent. 

"  Pray  let  him  stay,"  murmured  Winifred,  in  some 
distress. 

The  hired  musician,  subtly  aware  of  Winifred's  charm- 
ing personality,  stuffed  out  of  sight  the  frayed  edge  of 
a  socialistic  cuff,  and  pulled  up  the  shirt  band  from 
which  the  collar  was  banished,  presumably,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  the  brotherhood  of  man.  Yes,  there  was  no  mis- 
taking the  lazy,  shiftless  musician;  it  was  the  socialist 
whom  Irving  had  accompanied  to  the  Court  House  the 
day  of  the  divorce-suit  against  Mrs.  Vandever.  In  a 
word,  this  hired  violinist  was  the  first  husband  of  Mrs. 
J.  S.  Vandever,  and  the  father  of  Jessie's  young  Van- 
dever, otherwise  "  the  Duke." 

Irving  had  not  seen  the  tramp  since  that  day  of  Mrs. 
Sadie  Wyse's  letter;  and,  as  the  musician  made  no  sign 
of  recognition,  he  contented  himself  with  a  careless  nod. 
The  wanderer  —  Chartier  addressed  him  as  Arnold  — 
was  better  dressed  than  when  selling  pencils  at  Tomp- 
kins  Square,  but  not  so  well  as  when  fitted  out  in  Agos- 
tino's  rented  garments.  His  long  shaggy  hair  stood 
over  his  brow,  or  fell  down  to  his  eyes  unevenly,  and  his 
large  face  with  its  suggestion  of  physical  comfort,  was 
9  [  129  ] 


Something  Else 

covered  with  a  week's  beard.  The  young  man  remem- 
bered his  impression  of  almost  two  months  ago  —  an 
impression  of  a  refined  natural  man,  from  whom  the 
spiritual  nature  has  departed ;  or  rather,  of  a  man  whose 
spiritual  qualities,  never  uppermost,  have  been  absorbed 
by  the  earthy  nature.  It  was  not  as  if  the  musician 
were  base  or  sensuous,  but  rather  as  if  in  straying  from 
his  highest  estate,  he  had  halted  on  the  level  plain  of 
unambitious  ease. 

They  made  ready  to  play,  and  it  was  then  that  this 
musician,  known  as  Arnold,  caught  Irving's  eye.  In- 
stantly the  man  put  his  finger  upon  his  lips  while  he 
assumed  an  expression  of  intense  warning.  The  next 
moment,  he  was  bending  over  his  instrument.  Irving 
was  amazed.  Did  the  other  mean  that  he  did  not  want 
to  be  recognized?  Or  was  he  referring  to  the  presence 
of  Pasquale? 

The  overture,  difficult  of  execution,  was  decidedly 
painful,  suggesting  the  guillotine.  It  was  amazing  how 
Chartier  could  draw  every  note  almost  in  the  exact 
place,  without  ever  achieving  perfection.  All  that  his 
sweaty  labor  evoked  were  squeaky  protests  and  guttural 
rasps. 

"  Ah,  mon  dieu!  "  groaned  Du  Pays,  inwardly. 

Arnold  with  exceeding  deliberation,  laid  his  bow  upon 
the  floor,  delicately  adjusted  his  violin  in  its  case,  and 
picked  up  his  rack  to  dismember  it.  He  had  never  heard 
his  employer  perform,  hence  his  hopeful  beginning. 
Rising,  he  again  pushed  back  the  cuff,  and  started  for 
the  door.  Chartier  called  him  angrily,  with  threats  of 

[130] 


The  Italian  Spy 

dismissal,  but  Arnold  paused  not  till  the  door  had  closed 
him  from  their  sight.  Chartier,  however,  continued  tri- 
umphantly, and  poor  Monsieur  du  Pays,  hopeful  of  em- 
ployment at  the  restaurant  where  mere  menials  would  be 
detailed  to  his  accompaniment,  raised  his  voice  — 

" '  Una  voce  poco  fa 

Qui  nel  cor  ni  risono  — ' " 

Mr.  Burl  muttered,  "  'T  is  the  Barber  of  Seville." 

Chartier's  violin  squeaked  horribly. 

"  Aye,"  whispered  Dr.  Adams,  "  and  with  his  razor 
keen!" 

In  the  meantime  Irving  was  thinking  about  Arnold's 
strange  gesture,  and  his  precipitate  retreat.  Had  his 
departure  been  prompted  by  an  aesthetic  ear  alone?  As 
the  first  husband  of  Mrs.  Vandever  —  how  incredible  that 
seemed !  —  possibly  the  portrait  of  the  lady  had  startled 
him,  rousing  bitter  memories.  Irving  glanced  at  the 
easel;  no,  the  portrait  was  turned  with  its  face  to  the 
wall.  Besides,  Arnold  had  warned  Irving  —  warned 
him  of  what  ?  In  his  exasperated  perplexity,  Irving  lost 
some  of  Winifred's  charming  looks,  as  she  delicately 
placed  her  fingers  on  her  ears. 

At  last  the  execution  was  complete.     Du  Pays  sang 
triumphantly, 
'"E  cento  trappole,  faro  giacar,  faro  giacar,  faro  giacar,—'" 

And  it  was  done.  From  Chartier's  poised  bow,  seemed 
to  drip  the  blood  of  his  murdered  cavatina. 

Irving  started  from  his  reverie  to  announce,  "  Mon- 
sieur has  sung  for  Queen  Victoria.  And  at  Rome  — • 

[131] 


Something  Else 

Rome,  Italy,  you  understand  —  the  jewellers  did  a  thriv- 
ing business  when  he  sang  grand  opera,  for  the  ladies 
threw  their  gems  at  his  feet." 

Chartier  played  on.  "  So  sorry  — "  murmured  Win- 
ifred, rising,  "  that  — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  declared  Dr.  Adams,  wickedly  abetting 
her,  "  we  have  already  stayed  an  unconscionable  time. 
Good-bye  —  adieu.  So  glad  we  heard  you,  Monsieur 
du  Pays.  No,  Chris,  no,  we  really  must  be  going.  Eh, 
Sunbeam?" 

"  We  have  stayed  too  long,"  Winifred  declared. 
Then  turning  to  Irving,  who  was  disconsolately  helping 
her  with  her  cloak  — "  Remember  then,  Mr.  Payne,  we 
shall  expect  you ;  and  if  Agostino  — " 

It  was  as  he  drew  the  sleeve  upon  her  arm  that  the 
merest  chance  directed  his  eyes  toward  the  almost  for- 
gotten Pasquale.  Such  a  look  in  the  Italian's  eyes! 
Such  a  contraction  of  the  mouth!  In  a  flash,  Irving 
suspected  the  motive  of  Arnold's  warning  —  of  his  com- 
ing. Yes,  Arnold  was  a  friend  of  Agostino's,  and  would 
know  that  Agostino  had  sought  refuge  at  the  studio. 
This  Pasquale  must  be  one  of  the  Black  Handers,  seek- 
ing Agostino's  life. 

Winifred,  a  little  out  of  breath  from  the  exertion  of 
the  cloak,  repeated,  "  And  if  Agostino  — " 

Irving  caught  her  hand,  and  pressed  it,  significantly. 

Winifred,  who  was  not  used  to  having  her  hand 
pressed  significantly  by  strange  young  gentlemen,  turned 
crimson  and  tried  to  free  herself.  But  her  look  of  anger 
turned  to  surprise,  as  her  eyes  sought  Irving's.  As  for 

[132] 


The  Italian  Spy 

the  young  man,  he  gave  her  hand  a  tighter  pressure. 
Not  only  might  Agostino's  fate  depend  upon  her  silence, 
but  his  own  happiness  seemed  to  hang  upon  her  firm, 
warm  hand.  Never  before  had  he  been  given  such  an 
opportunity  to  do  good,  by  the  holding  of  a  perfect 
hand. 

Irving  spoke  aloud,  "  Yes,  you  can  depend  upon  me. 
I  understand." 

"  And  I  understand,"  said  Winifred,  which  meant  that 
he  need  cling  to  her  no  longer,  since  she  comprehended 
the  danger.  He  was  obliged,  therefore,  to  release  her. 
And  in  a  few  minutes  the  cab  had  whirled  her  and  her 
grandfather  into  another  world. 

When  they  were  gone,  there  never  was  a  studio  more 
cheerless,  more  vacant,  more  monotonous.  With  Wini- 
fred out  of  that  armchair,  there  never  was  a  chair  that 
held  out  its  arms  with  such  hollow  mockery.  Irving, 
suddenly  grown  gloomy,  almost  morose,  to  judge  from 
appearances,  drew  from  his  pocket  the  little  rubber  balls 
which  he  was  able  expertly  to  keep  up  in  the  air  by  the 
exertion  of  a  single  hand.  He  did  so  keep  them  in  the 
air,  holding  his  other  arm  rigidly  behind  his  back,  while 
Chartier  played  discouragingly,  Du  Pays  rested  his 
throat,  and  Christopher  Burl  smoked  his  pipe  in  motion- 
less gravity. 

After  watching  a  while,  Du  Pays  exclaimed,  desper- 
ately, "  Where  may  one  obtain  those  things  ?  " 

Irving,  never  ceasing  in  his  recreation,  said  briefly, 
"  Corner  grocery." 

Du  Pays  scurried  downstairs,  and  soon  returned  with 
[133] 


Something  Else 

rubber  balls.  He  held  his  unengaged  arm  after  Irving's 
example,  and  essayed  the  difficult  feat.  The  fancy 
struck  Mr.  Burl,  as  he  watched  each  standing  fixedly, 
one  arm  behind  his  back,  his  eyes  staring  upward,  that 
they  were  seeking  their  missing  members  among  the  raft- 
ers. It  was  impossible  to  guess  Pasquale's  thoughts,  but 
not  a  movement  escaped  him;  and  from  time  to  time  he 
stealthily  looked  toward  the  closed-in  corner,  no  doubt 
suspecting  that  Agostino  was  crouching  behind  the 
screen. 

When  Chartier  had  had  enough  of  it,  he  departed, 
carrying  Du  Pays  with  him,  permanently  engaged ;  Pas- 
quale  reluctantly  followed.  Irving  lingered  to  talk  it 
over  with  Mr.  Burl,  but  at  last  he,  too,  went  down  the 
outside  steps,  and  vanished  in  the  darkness.  It  was  very 
cold,  but  the  young  man  was  hardly  sensible  of  the  nip- 
ping breeze,  for  romantic  prospects  and  romantic  mem- 
ories attended  him. 

When  he  found  himself  before  the  lodging-house  of 
Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  he  could  still  feel  Winifred's  hand 
clasped  in  his ;  and  having  reached  the  old  stone  steps  — 
to  which  all  his  romances  seemed  to  bring  him,  at  last  — 
it  came  to  his  mind  that  next  Sunday,  the  day  of  his 
projected  visit  with  Winifred  to  his  foster-parents,  was 
the  day  appointed  for  meeting  young  Vandever  and  his 
friends  at  the  palace-like  hotel,  uptown.  There  would 
be  plenty  of  time,  after  returning  with  Winifred,  to  keep 
the  engagement  with  Vandever.  Time?  If  one  only 
had  as  much  of  some  other  things!  Irving  thrust  his 
hand  deep  into  his  pocket  —  just  seventy-five  cents. 

[134] 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   TRIP   WITH   WINIFRED 

JUST  seventy-five  cents,  it  has  been  observed,  was 
the  sum  total  of  Irving  Payne's  ready  money. 
As  the  young  man  sat  in  the  studio  with  his 
friend,  the  night  before  the  Great  Sunday,  he  said 
nothing  about  his  resources.  When  one  ostensibly 
scrapes  the  bottom  of  the  empty  bucket,  it  is  a  crying 
hint  for  refilling.  Mr.  Burl,  after  lending  a  hundred 
dollars  —  most  of  which  the  pawnbroker  had  added  to 
his  hoard  —  must  not  suffer  extortion.  Truly,  imposi- 
tion is  the  toll  of  friendship ;  but  even  such  friendship  as 
that  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  languishes  under  too  high  a 
tariff. 

As  the  two  stared  into  the  fire  from  the  great  arm- 
chairs, Irving  was  wondering  how  he  was  to  find  money 
for  the  morrow.  He  would  not  need  a  great  deal ;  but 
one  cannot  travel  about  the  country  with  beautiful  ladies 
and  old  gentlemen  who  keep  their  shoes  out  of  the  dust, 
without  something  more  than  seventy-five  cents.  As  for 
taking  Jessie  to  the  hotel  to  dine  in  the  evening  with 
Vandever  and  Bird  Martin,  and  the  two  chorus  girls,  or 
two  other  girls  of  similar  pliable  conventions, —  that  was 
out  of  the  question. 

[135] 


Something  Else 

In  the  first  place,  to  take  Jessie  anywhere  was  un- 
thinkable. Jessie  was  so  —  oh,  she  was  a  good  girl,  a 
really  good  and  well-disposed  little  creature,  but  —  Ir- 
ving fidgeted.  He  had  entirely  forgotten  how  round 
Jessie  was,  or  if  he  remembered,  he  did  n't  care.  Why 
should  n't  she  be  round?  What  of  it?  He  made  noth- 
ing of  her  roundness. 

In  the  second  place,  even  if  he  wanted  to  take  Jessie ; 
even  if  it  were  not  Jessie  or  anything  like  Jessie, 
but  if  it  were  Winifred,  for  instance  —  even  then,  how 
could  she  be  taken  to  a  banquet  on  the  leavings  of  his 
seventy-five  cents  ?  Money  is  a  very  useful  thing.  It  is 
more  than  a  convenience. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  boy,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Burl, 
suddenly  pointing  his  pipe  at  him,  "  leave  off  digging 
your  heel  into  that  rug,  and  that  ditch  in  your  forehead ! 
Be  a  social  animal.  Come  to  the  surface." 

Irving  would  not  disclose  his  pecuniary  embarrass- 
ment, so  he  passed  to  the  third  reason  for  foregoing  the 
supper  at  the  uptown  hotel;  a  reason  he  had  thus  far 
artfully  withheld,  that  it  might  be  used  for  conversa- 
tional purposes.  Irving  was  reminded  of  it  when  his 
attention  was  called  to  the  rug.  The  round  bluish  spot 
recalled  the  night  when  Mr.  Burl  dropped  his  pipe,  on 
hearing  that  the  young  man  had  learned  of  his  par- 
entage. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Irving,  shutting  out  Jessie's  face 
with  this  conventional  barricade,  "  Mrs.  Wyse  stopped 
me  in  the  hall,  this  morning,  to  tell  me  something  of  ex- 
traordinary importance.  It  was,  that  she  had  met  the 

[136] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

tramp  who  knows  my  father's  name,  and  the  name  of  my 
mother's  family." 

Mr.  Burl  almost  dropped  his  pipe  a  second  time,  as  he 
uttered  a  grunt  that  might  have  been  expressive  of  sur- 
prise, or  congratulation.  Then,  as  Irving  remained 
silent,  the  other  said,  "  Well?  Give  us  their  names,  Ir- 
ving." 

"  I  don't  know  the  names.  The  tramp  would  n't  tell 
Mrs.  Wyse.  He  told  her  to  get  five  hundred  from  me, 
and  bring  it  to  him,  and  he  'd  give  her  the  whole  story." 

"  Umph !  And  you  pulled  the  wad  out  of  your 
pocket,  I  suppose,  and  forked  it  over,  eh?  " 

"  I  told  her,  '  Let 's  make  it  a  thousand.' '  Irving 
squirmed  in  the  chair,  and  added,  "  Well,  I  had  to  tell 
her  I  was  dead  broke,  of  course.  Anyway,  if  I  'd  been 
the  millionaire  I  expect  to  be,  how  'd  I  have  known  the 
tramp  would  tell  her  the  truth?  " 

"  And  how  would  you  have  known  that  this  Mrs. 
Wyse  would  have  delivered  the  goods  ?  "  returned  the 
artist. 

"Oh,"  retorted  Irving,  "Mrs.  Wyse  is  all  right. 
You  never  saw  such  a  pattern  of  aristocracy  and  mo- 
rality. She  was  a  friend  of  the  Prince  of  Wales." 

"  In  that  case,  of  course  she  has  every  virtue,"  Mr. 
Burl  growled.  "  But  /  don't  believe  in  her.  I  believe 
she  meant  to  keep  that  money.  I  don't  believe  in  her 
tramp.  There  's  no  such  character,  in  my  opinion." 

"  If  you  knew  Mrs.  Wyse," —  began  Irving.  But 
what  was  the  use  to  try  to  reproduce  the  austere  quali- 
ties of  the  little  woman  in  black?  "  Anyway,"  he  said, 

[137] 


Something  Else 

"  I  made  her  tell  me  where  she  was  to  have  met  this 
tramp,  to  hand  him  over  my  supposititious  Wealth.  She 
was  to  have  met  him  at  Rutgers  Square  at  a  quarter  to 
nine,  Sunday  evening.  So  I  am  going  there  myself; 
and  I  '11  get  all  from  him  he  knows." 

"  How  '11  you  recognize  this  mythological  tramp  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  he  is  a  tramp.  Then,  he  '11  be 
standing  by  the  old  fountain.  Then,  he  has  a  mop  of 
red  hair,  an  enormous  red  mustache,  and  wears  a  ragged 
blue  army-coat." 

"  Does  n't  it  strike  you  as  singular  that  a  friend  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales  should  meet  the  man  you  have  de- 
scribed, at  such  an  unheard-of  place  as  Rutgers  Square  ? 
Is  n't  that  the  forum  of  the  socialists  ?  " 

"  All  my  life  is  a  singular  story,"  said  Irving,  con- 
tentedly. "  Just  take  to-morrow,  for  instance :  I  'm 
to  go  home,  in  the  company  of  Miss  Adams,  which 
promises  to  be  a  charming  adventure  —  and  we  must  n't 
forget  the  grandfather ;  then  I  'm  to  fare  to  the  uptown- 
hotel,  to  explain  to  Vandever  that  the  dinner  is  called 
off  —  and  you  don't  know  what  a  fine  fellow  Vandever 
is ;  it  does  me  good  to  look  at  him,  he  so  resembles  me ; 
then  I  'm  to  meet  this  mysterious  tramp,  and  force,  or 
wheedle  from  him,  the  name  of  my  father  —  I  don't  care 
a  penny  for  my  mother's  family ;  then  I  'm  to  smuggle 
Agostino  into  Dr.  Adams's  house,  unbeknown  to  the 
Black  Handers,  and  get  him  away  again  the  next 
night—" 

Irving  started  up  impetuously.  "  But  this  is  life !  " 
he  cried,  his  cheeks  glowing. 

[138] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

"  Because  it 's  all  in  the  future,"  Mr.  Burl  explained. 

"  When  the  future  is  charted,"  said  Irving,  senten- 
tiously,  "  the  day's  voyage  is  bright  with  hope." 

"  I  've  found  out  this  about  the  future,"  retorted  Mr. 
Burl,  tapping  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his  empty  pipe, 
as  if  beating  time  to  his  words :  "  If  you  suck  all  the 
juice  out  of  it,  before  it 's  yours  to  eat,  you  '11  find  it  a 
shrivelled  lemon." 

"  A  shrivelled  nothing !  "  Irving  scoffed.  He  would 
have  gone  away,  but  Mr.  Burl  proposed  the  spare  bed- 
room. Why  not  sleep  there  to-night,  and  stay  in  bed 
the  next  morning,  indefinitely  ?  Thus  he  would  be  fresh 
and  ready  for  his  Herculean  day  of  pleasure  and  ad- 
venture. Irving  gladly  acquiesced.  Nothing  was  said 
of  the  strange  "  person  "  who  prevented  the  young  man 
from  habitually  using  the  bedroom  —  a  "  person  "  who, 
so  far  as  Irving  knew,  had  never  yet  come  to  occupy  the 
chamber.  Since  he  was  not  to  return  to  his  lodgings, 
they  made  a  very  late  night  of  it,  talking  a  good  deal 
and  saying  even  more  by  their  silences. 

But  that  money  must  be  borrowed.  When  Irving  re- 
paired to  Gotham  Repose,  shortly  after  noon,  the  next 
day,  he  was  hardly  sensible  of  the  changes  that  had 
taken  place,  and  were  still  in  progress,  in  the  lodging- 
house.  It  seemed  to  be  a  day  of  extensive  house  clean- 
ing, or  moving.  Doors  stood  ajar,  unrelated  pieces  of 
furniture  were  taking  an  airing  in  the  halls.  An  ex- 
planation of  this  unwonted  phenomenon  was  received 
from  Wedging.  Irving  found  that  prudent  lover  busily 
ciphering  over  many  stray  bits  of  paper.  At  his  en- 

[139] 


Something  Else 

trance  into  the  third-floor  back,  Wedging  gave  his  usual 
recognition,  not  by  word  of  greeting,  or  by  nod,  but  by 
a  certain  spasmodic  contraction  of  the  crooked-in  legs 
as  if  to  say,  "  I  know  you  're  there." 

"  Well,  old  man,"  said  Irving  heartily,  throwing  his 
hat  upon  the  bed,  and  inwardly  amused,  as  usual,  at  his 
own  attitude  of  hail-fellow-well-met,  "how  goes  it?" 
But  he  put  his  hat  on  his  head  again,  for  the  room  was 
not  so  warm  as  he  had  expected.  In  fact,  the  radiator 
was  stone-cold. 

"  Oh,  /  'm  all  right,": —  Wedging's  tone  intimated, 
"  But  I  fancy  you  are  in  a  bad  way."  He  gathered  up 
the  stray  leaves  and  pocketed  them.  "  Guess  you  know 
Mrs.  Wyse  has  skipped  —  no?  I  don't  care,  as  I  meant 
to  pull  out  in  a  short  time,  anyway.  A  stranger  has 
rented  the  house,  but  Mrs.  Wyse  got  away  with  most  of 
the  furniture.  Oh,  she  's  a  wise  one,  Mrs.  Sadie  is  — 
not." 

Irving  was  speechless.  Skipped?  Going  to  pull  out? 
What  could  it  mean? 

"  And  I  'm  going  to  leave  the  railroad  office,  too. 
I  've  got  a  job  with  a  broker  over  on  Wall  Street. 
Come  to  Sledge  and  Horn's,  some  time,  and  give  us  a 
call." 

"  I  '11  do  it !  "  cried  Irving,  emphatically.  "  I  '11  place 
an  order  for  a  few  million  shares  in  A,  B,  and  C  Stocks 
and  X,  Y,  and  Z  Securities.  But  in  the  meantime  — 
what  do  you  mean  about  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse?  " 

"  She  's  pinched  all  the  lodgers  in  the  house,  in  her 
[140] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

money-schemes,"  said  Wedging,  "  except  me.  She 's 
skipped  the  police,  just  in  time,  carrying  off  the  booty. 
Poor  Jessie  Tiff  entrusted  her  with  all  her  savings,  and 
will  have  to  go  to  live  with  her  mother  in  the  East  Side. 
Look  here,  Mr.  Payne,"  Wedging  rose  and  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets,  while  a  deep  red  crept  into  his 
dark  cheeks,  "  Is  there  anything  —  has  there  ever  been 
—  between  you  and  —  between  you  two  ?  " 

Irving's  answer  was  unhesitating,  assuring,  and  col- 
loquial: "Nix!" 

"  Then  who  is  it  ?  "  Wedging  burst  forth,  plainly 
astonished  at  the  other's  denial.  It  gave  Irving  an  un- 
pleasant thrill,  this  manifestation  of  emotion  in  the 
phlegmatic,  colorless  lodger.  "  I  tell  you,  she  cares  for 
somebody.  I  thought  it  you  all  the  time.  And  this  is 
the  day  for  settling  it  —  but  since  you  —  But  I  tell  you, 
it 's  somebody,  for  when  I  asked  her  to  marry  me  —  as 
soon  as  we  knew  Mrs.  Wyse  had  robbed  her  on  get-rich- 
quick  propositions  — well,  she  refused  me,  all  right." 

Then  it  must  be  Vandever.  Irving  exclaimed,  "  The 
little  — "  But  he  did  not  complete  his  expression  of 
Jessie's  folly,  not  even  to  himself.  New  matters  were 
being  thrust  upon  his  attention  with  a  vengeance: 
Wedging's  offer  to  Jessie;  Jessie's  adherence  to  an  im- 
possible ideal;  the  amazing  revelation  of  Mrs.  Wyse's 
duplicity.  And  the  new  landlady  must  be  interviewed 
at  once ;  since  Wedging  was  going  away,  Irving  would 
speak  for  the  skylight-room.  All  this  was  immediate, 
thought-compelling.  But  all  this,  in  fact,  the  entire 

[141] 


Something  Else 

universe,  faded  into  insignificance  before  the  pressing 
need  of  the  moment.  Not  theories,  but  conditions,  con- 
fronted him ;  money  must  be  borrowed. 

Wedging  was  impossible.  Irving  descended  to  the 
second  floor  front, —  no  longer  the  rear  roam  overlook- 
ing the  scabby  brick  wall, —  Monsieur  sings  at  Chartier's. 

"  You  cannot  enter,"  said  Madame  du  Pays,  not  open- 
ing the  door  to  his  knock.  Her  voice  was  abjectly 
apologetic.  "  Monsieur  have  the  headache.  Is  it  the 
visit  of  friendship  we  are  fated  to  miss?  But  to-mor- 
row, come.  But  to-day,  non,  ca  ne  se  pent  pas"  All 
this  with  incredible  speed  of  tongue. 

"  It  is  no  visit  of  friendship,"  said  Irving,  piercing 
the  door  with  sabre  tones.  "  It  is  the  visit  of  beggary. 
I  have  come  to  borrow  five  dollars.  But  don't  bother, 
I  '11  pawn  my  watch  again  —  it 's  a  very  handy  time- 
piece." 

"  No,  no,  no,  no,"  cried  the  voice  of  Monsieur  du 
Pays.  "  Entrez,  mon  ami.  Make  the  door  open,  Angel- 
ique.  Eh  bien!  C'est  beaucoup  mieua.  I  feel  better, 
for  the  light  of  a  friend  shines  upon  me.  But,  mon  dieu, 
me  voila  dans  un  bel  embarras." 

Monsieur  du  Pays  was  indeed  in  un  bel  embarras. 
Something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  hair-dyes,  and 
Monsieur's  head  was  no  longer  nobly  blonde,  but  as  red 
as  a  flannel  rag.  The  air,  too,  was  filled  with  a  pungent 
odor  that  had  refused  the  window  —  a  carriage-shop 
odor,  recalling  fresh  leather,  freshly  varnished  wood, 
and  freshly  greased  axles.  The  tenor  was  himself  the 
vehicle  in  process  of  remaking. 

[142] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

"  You  want  five?  "  cried  the  soloist,  rising  like  a  hero 
above  his  humiliation.  "  Shall  I  not  make  it  ten? 
Do  I  not  owe  you  all?  It  was  you  who  told  Monsieur 
Chartier  how  well  he  play  —  ah,  could  you  ?  —  and  you 
it  was  who  did  so,  how  you  say?  —  jolly  him ;  he  take  me 
at  the  fall  of  the  hat.  Qu'avez-vou  done?  We  make 
it  ten,  is  it  not?  " 

But  Irving  was  firm.  Only  five,  to  be  paid  back  at 
the  next  pay-day. 

"  Pay  it  back ! "  the  two  exclaimed  in  perfect  unison, 
as  if  their  part  had  been  carefully  rehearsed.  Then 
Madame  led  with,  "Do  we  not  know?"  and  Monsieur 
declared,  "  I  already  hold  it  in  my  hand  again." 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  when  Irving  breathed 
the  refined  atmosphere  of  the  Adams  home,  off  Madison 
Square.  He  had  hardly  seated  himself  in  the  little  world 
of  easy  culture  —  a  culture  too  sure  of  itself  to  commit 
the  unpardonable  fault  of  being  over-cautious  —  when 
the  doctor  and  Winifred  announced  themselves  ready 
for  the  journey.  On  his  way  to  the  coupe,  Irving  was 
impressed  with  a  sense  of  home-permanency,  suggesting 
that  whoever  came  and  went  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
fashion  (it  was  always  ebb  tide  now  in  this  once  aristo- 
cratic district),  the  Adams  family  meant  to  remain.  In 
this  home-permanency  the  servants  stood  for  more  than 
accidental  necessities.  The  butler  was  no  cold  abstrac- 
tion of  butlerdom,  but  a  man  with  evident  interest  in 
frontdoor  admissions;  the  coachman,  while  never  once 
turning  his  head  to  look  down  at  the  three  in  the  coupe, 
made  it  felt  that  his  wooden  expression  was  for  the 

[143] 


Something  Else 

public  gaze,  while  at  bottom,  he  and  the  doctor  under- 
stood one  another. 

They  discussed  certain  plans  for  inveigling  Agostino 
to  Winifred's  studio,  happily  not  feeling  bound  to  any 
of  them.  This  freedom  to  propose  anything,  however 
absurd  or  impossible,  exactly  suited  Irving's  fancy, 
which  never  cared  for  hard  labor.  It  amused  him  to 
force  Winifred's  smile,  and  often  he  made  her  smile 
against  her  will.  It  was  a  captivating  process,  that 
smile  of  Winifred's,  a  lighting  up  of  the  wonderful 
brown  eyes,  a  little  uplift  of  the  sweeping  lashes,  an  ir- 
resistible tremble  of  the  upper  lip,  and  an  almost  micro- 
scopic drawing  in  of  the  under  lip. 

In  her  street-dress,  he  found  her  different  from  the 
free  and  independent  workman  of  blouse  and  cap,  differ- 
ent from  the  meditative  evening-lady  of  the  huge  arm- 
chair with  hearth-flame  glory.  She  was  now  the  picture 
of  reserved  womanhood,  holding  in  reservation,  from  na 
conscious  volition,  a  thousand  subtle  graces  which,  like 
sweet  violets,  hid  themselves  for  no  other  reason  than 
because  they  were  sweet  violets.  She  did  not  impress 
him  as  seeking  to  hold  him  at  a  distance  on  account  of 
their  difference  of  station  in  life,  or  for  any  cause. 
She  was  at  a  distance,  nevertheless,  and  he  felt  it  even 
more  surely  because  she  made  no  point  of  the  difference. 
The  sweet  violet  does  not  appear  to  know  it  is  sweet; 
but,  however  the  wild  violet  may  flaunt  its  larger  leaves, 
and  hold  its  larger  blossoms  in  air,  it  knows  what  it  is 
about,  in  not  shrinking  from  sight  in  inodorous 
modesty. 

[144] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

Irving,  then,  perceived  this  intangible  difference.  If 
he  had  cared  greatly  for  Winifred,  it  might  have  stirred 
his  ambition  to  reach  her  own  plane  of  being.  Should 
he  ever  care  greatly  for  her,  he  might  make  the  most 
difficult  of  attempts  —  that  of  remaking  himself ;  not  as 
Monsieur  du  Pays,  for  change  of  inherent  character 
requires  an  alchemy  far  more  potent  than  any  hair-dye. 
Since  he  could  not  yet  care  enough  for  Winifred  to  do 
violence  to  his  nature,  he  could  not  but  take  her  innocent 
isolation  in  a  sort  of  reproach  to  himself,  who  was  con- 
scious of  no  wrong.  Therefore  his  teasing  efforts  to 
compel  Winifred's  smile  —  a  teasing  which,  however  free 
from  malice,  was  doing  him  no  good  in  Winifred's  esti- 
mation. 

Dr.  Adams  pointed  out  the  high-backed  stone  seat 
at  the  base  of  the  Farragut  statue,  as  his  favorite  rest- 
ing place  in  Madison  Square,  which  was  another  way 
of  saying  in  New  York  City.  The  silver-haired  descend- 
ant of  former  Madison  Square  devotees  grumbled  at 
the  caprices  of  old  neighbors  who  had  abandoned  their 
birthright  for  the  pottage  of  "  Millionaire  Row."  He 
remembered  when  these  enormous  buildings  were  not  — 
when  vacant  lots  and  disreputable  stables  and  hovels  had 
their  place  in  the  world  of  interrupted  culture,  form- 
ing a  relief,  a  certain  setting  of  picturesque  necessity. 
"  But  you  are  so  young,  so  abnormally  young,"  he  broke 
off,  with  an  impatient  shake  of  the  head ;  "  one  place 
is  the  same  as  another  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  Winifred,  "  if  you  are  in  it." 

Her  grandfather,  to  hide  his  secret  delight  at  these 


Something  Else 

words,  cried  out  despairingly,  "  Oh,  why  have  n't  I  Chris 
Burl  here  to  quarrel  with?  " 

The  coachman  let  them  out  at  the  Twenty-third 
Street  Station,  with  a  proprietary  air  as  if  calling  all 
coachmen  to  witness  the  superior  grade  of  humanity  that 
he  handled.  The  travellers  were  engulfed  in  the  chilled 
brilliance  and  unassertive  but  unescapable  smells  of  the 
Subway.  After  the  uproar  of  Broadway  and  Twenty- 
third,  the  electric  monotone  of  the  underground  passage 
was  grateful  to  Irving.  It  gave  him  a  sort  of  intimacy 
with  his  companions.  Being  obliged  to  stand  up,  for 
want  of  room,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  forcing  Winifred 
to  look  up  constantly  into  his  face,  with  her  always  un- 
afraid eyes,  and  her  sometimes  deliciously  quivering  lip. 
The  other  passengers  must  have  envied  him  his  privilege ; 
he  was  sure  they  did,  and  brightened  proportionally,  for 
he  was  always  at  his  best  when  people  were  looking. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Irving  —  not  to  Dr.  Adams,  of 
course,  though  that  gentleman  was  standing  at  his  very 
elbow,  but  to  Winifred,  though  she  was  inconvenient  — 
"has  Mr.  Burl  finished  Mrs.  Vandever's  picture?" 

Winifred  opened  her  eyes  so  wide,  and  Irving  saw  so 
much  of  their  luminous  brown  splendor,  that  he  almost 
began  to  care  for  her  on  the  spot.  She  said,  decidedly, 
"  He  has  never  begun  Mrs.  Vandever's  picture." 

Irving  hardly  knew  what  she  said,  from  looking  into 
her  eyes;  and  she  was  so  surprised  at  his  question,  that 
she  forgot  to  look  away.  That  was  unlucky  for  him, 
too.  "  But  I  saw  it,  when  it  was  half -finished,"  he 
managed  to  say. 

[146] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

"  That 's  not  Mrs.  Vandever's  picture,"  said  Winifred, 
with  the  finality  of  professional  wisdom.  "  Do  you 
know  Mrs.  Vandever?  " 

"  I  have  seen  her  several  times.  I  even  spoke  to  Mr. 
Burl  about  that  portrait.  He  didn't  deny  its  being 
hers." 

"  Just  like  him ! "  said  Winifred,  with  the  whimsical 
tilt  of  her  little  mouth,  that  was  almost  as  harmful  as 
the  open  look  of  the  great  eyes.  "  I  know  the  picture 
you  mean.  That  is  n't  Mrs.  Vandever's  portrait.  It'  s 
just  a  fancy  sketch.  There  was  n't  a  model.  He  saw 
a.  face  in  the  street,  went  home,  and  mixed  his  paints. 
He  told  me  about  it." 

Irving  challenged  her  with,  "  But  do  you  know  Mrs. 
Vandever?  " 

"  Her  daughter  is  to  spend  the  day  with  me  to-mor- 
row —  she  '11  sleep  at  our  house  to-night,"  said  Wini- 
fred conclusively,  and  her  grandfather  came  into  the 
conversation  with  — 

"What,  what,  what!  Know  Mrs.  Vandever?  Bless 
my  soul !  I  've  been  her  family  physician  since  before 
she  married  —  twenty-five  or  thirty  years,  I  should  say. 
What  about  her?" 

"  Grandfather,"  interposed  Winifred  appealingly, 
"  is  Mr.  Burl  painting  her  portrait?  "  . 

"Chris?"  ejaculated  the  physician.  "Mrs.  Van- 
dever? Fiddlesticks!" 

Irving  laughed  aloud  —  they  were  so  sure,  and  so  was 
he.  "  If  we  ever  meet  at  Mr.  Burl's  studio,"  he  cried, 
"  I  '11  show  you  the  evidence." 

[147] 


Something  Else 

The  ride  on  the  ferryboat  was  all  it  should  be,  on  a 
dazzling1  Sunday  afternoon.  The  transit  to  Jersey  City 
interfered  somewhat  with  the  growing  romance,  but  the 
automobile  that  bore  them  out  of  Harrison  into  the  de- 
serted country,  gave  them  once  more  the  appearance  of 
a  family  group.  Irving  drove.  The  afternoon  was 
bracing  with  February  cold,  not  too  intense;  and  Wini- 
fred, animated  and  rosy,  kept  pointing  out  picturesque 
glimpses  of  barren  fields  and  quaint  cottages.  Irving, 
who  knew  every  foot  of  the  way,  for  his  boyhood  had 
been  spent  in  the  neighborhood,  took  advantage  of  by- 
roads, and  seldom-travelled  short-cuts,  to  bring  his 
favorite  haunts  into  prospective.  He  and  Winifred  dif- 
fered as  to  artistic  values,  and  argued ;  she  for  the  sake 
of  art,  he  for  an  excuse  to  look  at  her. 

Presently  Dr.  Adams,  riding  over  this  light  talk  as  if 
it  were  stubble,  brought  up  the  subject  of  the  day's  ex- 
citement: the  suicide  of  a  young  married  man  who  had 
been  supposed  enormously  rich,  but  who  had  proved  al- 
most penniless.  "  There  was  nothing  left  in  life  that  he 
wanted,"  the  doctor  explained,  judicially,  "  and  therefore 
he  got  out  of  it." 

"  He  had  his  wife,"  said  Winifred,  who  manifested  a 
decided  hostility  to  the  deceased,  or  rather,  to  his  method 
of  escaping  a  difficult  situation. 

"  Yes,  nominally,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly.  "  But  she 
was  used  to  going  at  a  certain  pace,  and  he  had  nothing 
left  to  keep  up  with  her.  She  'd  have  left  him  —  been 
bound  to  —  would  n't  know  how  to  live  poor.  She  's 

[148] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

rather  shallow  at  best,  and  it  takes  a  genius  to  know  how 
to  live  poor." 

"  I  had  not  suspected,"  remarked  Irving,  "  that  I  was 
unusually  gifted." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  to  live  poor,"  —  the  doctor 
disposed  of  him  in  a  sentence.  "  I  do  not  say  to  be  poor, 
but  to  live  poor." 

"  Young  Warne  had  his  life,  at  any  rate,"  said  Ir- 
ving. "  He  had  as  much  as  I  have." 

"What  is  life?"  returned  the  doctor,  didactically. 
"  Nobody  knows.  All  we  can  know  is  our  idea  of  life. 
Warne's  idea  of  life  was  to  live  as  the  very  rich.  He 
sacrificed  everything  to  appear  a  multimillionaire. 
When  he  kept  slipping  back  and  back,  till  he  had  lost 
the  race,  there  was  nothing  to  keep  trying  for.  You 
might  say  he  'd  lost  his  life,  before  he  shot  himself." 

"  He  had  never  really  lived,"  Winifred  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  burning.  "  He  thought  that  eating  and  drinking, 
the  club,  the  ballroom,  the  theatre,  the  Stock  Exchange 
—  he  thought  these  incidents  of  existence  were  life. 
The  only  standard  for  any  life  is  its  ideal.  I  don't  be- 
lieve we  '11  be  judged  by  what  we  are,  but  by  what  we 
try  to  be." 

Irving  felt  the  sudden  sword-thrust,  but  made  no  sign. 

"  Now  that  he  is  dead,"  Winifred  went  on,  with  in- 
creased earnestness,  "  can  you  tell  me  what  the  world  has 
lost?" 

"  Only  a  pretender,  I  should  say,"  remarked  her 
grandfather. 

[  149  ] 


Something  Else 

Winifred  caught  at  the  word,  her  eyes  flashing. 
"  Yes.  Only  a  pretender  to  the  throne  a  man  should 
have  occupied.  Such  an  opportunity  —  to  be  a  man  1 
How  the  world  needs  men !  —  so  much  more  than  men 
need  it.  And  this  Mr.  Warne  is  gone,  and  the  world  fed 
and  clothed  him  for  nothing.  He  did  n't  pay  his  board 
bill,  since  he  did  no  good  for  the  race.  And  /  say,  the 
sooner  the  better !  " 

"  Why,  my  dear  Sunbeam ! "  the  old  man  remon- 
strated. "  Please  don't  be  so  bloodthirsty." 

Winifred  caught  herself  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

Irving  spoke :  "  I  'm  glad  that  pretender's  name  was 
Warne ;  for  to  save  my  life,  I  can't  help  feeling  you  are 
discussing  Irving  Payne." 

Winifred  grew  crimson  and  bit  her  lip ;  at  sight  of 
which  Dr.  Adams  cried  out,  loudly,  "  The  bull's  eye ! 
The  bull's  eye !  " 

Winifred  made  a  revengeful  grimace  at  her  grand- 
father, that  would  surely  have  been  ugly  upon  any  other 
face.  As  Irving  turned  to  look  at  her  steadily,  she  held 
her  lower  lip  between  her  teeth,  but  would  say  nothing. 

"  You  are  no  doubt  right,"  remarked  Irving,  very 
pleasantly  indeed,  as  to  externals ;  "  the  sooner  the  bet- 
ter. But  before  I  shoot  myself,  to  get  out  of  the  way  in 
order  that  some  real  man  may  ascend  my  throne,  allow 
me  to  make  a  last  speech  —  or  leave  a  letter  — '  Kind 
friends :  Before  this  bullet  finds  a  vital  spot  — '  You 
know,  if  I  only  wound  myself,  I  '11  be  arrested,  but  if  I 
kill  myself  they  '11  give  me  flowers ;  and  that  seems 
hardly  fair,  does  it  ?  " 

[150] 


The  Trip  with  Winifred 

Winifred  interposed,  with  vehemence,  "  Don't !  " 

Irving's  real  feeling  asserted  itself  in  sombre  silence. 
Dr.  Adams  made  no  attempt  to  relieve  the  tension.  If 
the  young  fellow  —  who  was  perhaps  not  so  frivolous  as 
he  appeared  —  could  derive  any  good  from  what  had 
been  said,  let  it  sink  deep,  while  there  was  a  chance  for 
seed-germination!  Irving,  who  did  not  believe  he  was 
a  useless  factor  in  life,  because  life  was  so  dear  to  him, 
and  who  did  not  admit  the  right  of  others  to  claim  su- 
periority for  their  different  views  of  life,  tried  to  look 
as  if  nothing  had  happened;  but  he  couldn't  quite, 
though  he  hated  sulking. 

"  Anyway,"  said  Winifred,  at  last,  trying  to  rally, 
and  appearing,  in  spite  of  her  splendid  height  and 
breadth  of  form,  almost  child-like  in  unwonted  embar- 
rassment, "  I  could  n't  have  meant  you,  Mr.  Payne,  in 
the  remotest  degree  —  I  mean,  except  in  the  remotest 
degree  —  or  if  I  did,  I  did  n't  —  I  was  n't  conscious  of  it. 
It  was  just  what  Mr.  Burl  said  about  you  in  the  studio, 
that  day  we  met.  Have  you  forgotten  that  day?  " 

Had  he! 

"  And  when  you  told  your  story,  you  confirmed  all 
he  'd  said.  You  told  us  yourself  that  you  were  —  that 
you  did  n't  care  for  anything  except  —  oh,  you  know 
what  you  said.  And  grandfather  is  very  unkind,  and  — 
and  very  unjust,  and  I  think,  ungallant."  Her  voice 
faltered.  "  Forgive  me,  Grandfather,  but  you  ought  not 
to  have  pointed  my  words  at  Mr.  Payne ;  for  we  are  al- 
most strangers,  and  naturally  I  can  know  nothing  of  his 
ideals." 

[151] 


Something  Else 

"  I  have  n't  any,"  Irving  obstinately  declared. 

"  Then  "—  Winifred's  eyes  flashed  *- "  be  Mr.  Warne, 
if  you  please,  and  take  all  I  said  as  meant  for  you !  " 

Dr.  Adams  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief,  and  shook 
all  over  from  some  suppressed  emotion.  What  that  emo- 
tion was,  he  carefully  concealed.  But  Winifred's  eyes 
were  bright  with  defiance,  and,  at  the  same  time,  moist 
from  wounded  sensibility,  when  the  machine  drew  up  be- 
fore the  simple  cottage  of  Captain  Payne. 

As  Irving,  still  with  face  inscrutable,  leaped  to  the 
ground,  a  shepherd  dog  came  bounding  around  the  house, 
barking  joyful  recognition.  Irving  pointed  at  the 
friend  of  his  boyhood,  and  spoke  of  himself  as  having 
already  sought  ignoble  oblivion.  "  At  any  rate,"  he 
remarked,  quizzically,  "  his  dog  loved  him." 

Nothing  was  to  be  said  to  that.  As  all  three  stood 
before  the  gate  of  his  foster-parents'  home,  Irving,  with 
his  sudden,  winning  smile,  turned  to  Winifred,  and 
silently  extended  his  hand. 

She  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  conscious,  the  while, 
that  her  grandfather  was  watching,  to  see  if  she  would 
yield  the  point.  Her  look  halted  in  the  outlying  dim- 
ness of  a  smile.  "  But  I  have  nothing  to  retract,"  she 
warned. 

Irving's  smile  grew  instantly  sunlike,  and  her  last 
lingering  mist  was  dissolved.  "  But  I  have  everything  to 
admit,"  he  responded. 

Then  they  shook  hands,  and  were  friends. 


[152] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   LITTLE   NEIGHBOR 

IRVING  had  telephoned  their  coming,  and  his  foster- 
mother  met  them  at  the  door.  She  was  a  motherly 
woman,  whose  redness  of  face  suggested  much  bend- 
ing over  hot  ovens  for  the  evolution  of  browned  turkeys 
and  savory  pies.  One  felt  instinctively  that,  however  she 
might  mix  her  tenses,  she  would  not  be  guilty  of  a  heart- 
solecism.  Irving  kissed  her  heartily  and  announced, 
"  This  is  mother  Payne,"  just  as  he  might  have  said,  "  I 
present  the  first  lady  of  the  land." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  break  bad  news  at  the  front  door,"  said 
Mrs.  Payne,  "  but  I  would  n't  send  you  word,  Irving, 
for  we  did  n't  want  you  bothered.  The  captain  has  gone 
and  broken  his  leg ;  and  you  can  come  in  and  see  for  your- 
self." 

Inasmuch  as  the  door  opened  directly  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and  as  the  room  was  small  and  the  captain  no 
pygmy,  being,  indeed,  a  man  of  much  blood  and  hard 
breathing,  he  was  seen  without  difficulty. 

"  Well,  Father  Payne ! "  exclaimed  Irving,  reproach- 
fully, as  he  gazed  upon  the  helpless  limb  extended  across 
a  chair,  "what  have  you  done  now?" 

Captain  Silas  Payne  narrowed  his  eyes  to  quizzical 
slits,  while  a  thousand  little  wrinkles,  about  mouth  and 

[153] 


Something  Else 

eyes,  formed  a  fit  accompaniment  to  some  witty  re- 
joinder. It  was  the  wit  itself  that  failed  of  manifesta- 
tion. He  could  think  of  no  pertinent  reply  to  Irving's 
affectionate  taunt,  so  his  droll  expression  faded  away,  un- 
fruitful. 

The  situation  called  for  a  truce  to  conventions,  and 
Winifred  was  quick  with  sympathetic  interest.  "  I  fell 
from  deck,"  the  captain  told  her,  "  but  I  broke  only  one 
of  'em.  Irv  tells  us  you  want  Agostino.  They  say 
every  creature  has  his  use,  and  you  've  proved  the  saying. 
But  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  never  go  back  to  New  York.  He  's 
scared  to  death  on  account  of  the  Black  Handers.  They 
wrote  him  a  letter,  demanding  money ;  it  was  signed  with 
the  orthodox  black  fingers  spread  out  as  if  to  dip  in  his 
heart's  blood.  Of  course  it  would  make  no  great  differ- 
ence if  they  did  nab  the  dago ;  but  you  could  never  make 
him  believe  it." 

"  The  way  he  fell  from  deck,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Payne, 
to  whom  only  one  subject  proved  just  then  of  moment, 
"  was  this :  he  was  coming  down  the  Passaic  after  a 
lumber-barge,  when  two  boys  who  'd  been  rocking  their 
skiff  got  themselves  overturned.  The  captain  never 
waited  a  second,  he  just  jumped — " 

"  But  never  reached  them,"  interposed  the  captain, 
much  embarrassed  at  his  unwonted  role  of  hero.  "  All  I 
accomplished  was  a  game  leg.  Doctor,  how  's  business  ?  " 

"  Swimming,"  Dr.  Adams  answered,  in  nautical 
phrase. 

"  But  the  best  is  to  be  told,"  persisted  Mrs.  Payne,  as 
[154] 


The  Little  Neighbor 

she  tried  to  smooth  down  that  lock  of  the  captain's  hair 
that  she  had  been  smoothing  for  thirty  years.  "  The 
father  of  the  boys  thinks  it  means  something  to  risk  your 
life  for  little  children ;  and  he  's  going  to  let  us  have  a 
porgy,  on  easy  terms,  just  as  soon  as  the  captain  can 
walk." 

"  He  's  rich,"  the  captain  explained,  "  and  does  n't 
care  how  he  spends  his  money,  I  guess.  Well!  This 
means  a  new  start  in  life  for  me,  so  I  can't  complain  — 
my  tug  burned  to  the  last  plank,  doctor,  and  no  in- 
surance. But  the  porgy  will  keep  us  afloat.  Oh, 
there  's  nothing  like  breaking  a  leg,  to  get  up  in  this 
world." 

Winifred  would  have  liked  to  ask  what  a  "  porgy  " 
was,  but  suspected  from  the  sound  of  the  word  that  it 
was  something  not  to  be  discussed  before  ladies.  She 
observed  no  mystification  upon  her  grandfather's  face 
—  she  would  get  it  from  him  when  they  were  alone,  at  all 
events ! 

"  Agostino  is  working  for  our  Little  Neighbor,"  said 
Mrs.  Payne ;  she  had  been  giving  Irving  pats  upon  arm 
and  shoulder,  when  she  thought  the  strangers  were  not 
looking.  "  Miss  Adams  had  better  go  after  him  alone, 
for  he  'd  take  fright  at  a  crowd  of  us,  and  likely  enough 
run  away.  Irving,  how  could  you  stay  away  from  home 
all  this  time?  "  she  added,  plaintively. 

"  I  intended  coming  every  week,"  said  Irving,  re- 
morsefully, "  but  one  Sunday  just  followed  another, 
till  weeks  were  months  and  —  I  hardly  know  how  it 

[155] 


Something  Else 

was.  I  'm  never  so  happy  as  when  here,  but  —  but  — " 
Nothing  occurred  to  him  more  explanatory  than  his  last 
word,  so  he  left  it  to  speak  for  itself. 

Irving  went  with  Winifred,  to  show  her  the  way ;  but 
Dr.  Adams,  like  a  good  old  gentleman,  remained  with 
the  disabled  captain.  Mrs.  Payne  entertained  him  with 
details  of  country  life.  Her  years  of  wandering,  first 
as  daughter  of  one  tug  captain,  then  as  young  wife  of 
another,  had  given  her  an  inextinguishable  zest  for  per- 
manent anchorage.  Ever  since  their  adoption  of  Irving, 
the  little  family  had  dwelt  in  this  cottage,  never  tiring, 
unless  Irving  tired,  of  the  perennial  themes  of  vegetables, 
chickens,  and  a  cow. 

Likely  enough,  Irving  had  heard  these  subjects  suffi- 
ciently exploited.  As  he  conducted  Winifred  in  quest  of 
the  Italian  model,  he  did  not  allude  to  the  charms  of  rural 
life.  "  You  '11  like  our  Little  Neighbor,"  he  predicted. 
"  She  has  lived  just  across  the  street  from  us,  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember,  but  I  've  hardly  ever  conversed 
with  her.  There  never  was  anybody  as  shy  and  timid. 
She  is  about  mother  Payne's  age,  I  imagine.  She  hides 
herself  from  the  world ;  there  's  a  life  secret,  no  doubt. 
It 's  too  bad,  when  you  consider  what  a  fine  sort  she  is. 
Maybe  that 's  the  reason.  She  owns  the  greenhouse, 
and,  every  season,  sends  a  market  wagon  to  Gansevoort 
Market,  not  far  from  Mr.  Burl's  studio." 

The  Little  Neighbor's  cottage  was  even  smaller  than 
that  of  the  Paynes.  No  one  answered  the  bell.  Irving 
said,  "  We  are  sure  to  find  her  in  the  greenhouse.  She 
never  leaves  her  place,  unless  some  one  is  sick,  and  needs 

[156] 


The  Little  Neighbor 

her.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  a  tough  case  of  pneumonia 
in  my  boyhood,  probably  I  'd  never  have  met  her." 

If  Irving  had  been  wounded  by  Winifred's  seeming  as- 
sumption that  he  was  a  useless  weight  to  the  earth,  her 
pretty  interest  in  his  little  confidences  did  much  to  soothe 
the  pain.  That  she  was  interested  in  every  word  he 
spoke  regarding  "  the  Little  Neighbor  "  was  unmistak- 
able ;  and  when  Winifred  was  interested,  her  opened  eyes 
and  parted  lips  revealed  a  charm  of  depth  and  sweetness 
which  her  habitual  reserve  merely  suggested.  Oh,  it 
paid  well  to  interest  Winifred! 

Sure  enough,  they  found  the  Little  Neighbor  in  the 
greenhouse;  under  her  supervision,  Agostino  was  spad- 
ing an  asparagus-bed.  He  was  the  first  to  see  them  com- 
ing; all  movement  ceased,  save  for  the  snapping  of  his 
small  black  eyes.  His  employer,  next  perceiving, 
widened  her  blue  eyes  in  startled  terror.  She  had  been 
taken  so  unaware,  that  she  could  not  even  falter  a  greet- 
ing. 

Agostino  growled,  "  Come  confonde!  " —  which,  to 
his  mind,  stood  for  Italian  discrimination  and  English 
asperity. 

Irving  hastily  explained  the  object  of  the  intrusion, 
and  introduced  Winifred  to  "  Mrs.  Hurt."  As  on  the 
few  former  occasions  of  his  conversing  with  her,  so  now, 
he  felt  the  oddity  of  addressing  her  as  "  Mrs.  Hurt," 
because  in  his  home  she  had  always  been  spoken  of  merely 
as  "  the  Little  Neighbor."  What  need  had  she  for  any 
other  title,  since,  apparently  she  had  neither  relatives 
nor  friends  ?  Why  not  be  called  "  Little  Neighbor  "  to 

[157] 


Something  Else 

the  end?  This  small,  silent  creature,  always  in  black 
—  what  a  fossil,  truly !  Only  the  need  and  illness  of 
those  about  her  could  move  her  to  spasmodic  life,  as 
a  fossil  may  be  jarred  to  motion  by  a  hammer's  blow. 

When  Mrs.  Hurt  learned  that  they  had  not  come 
to  carry  her  off,  the  alarm  in  the  big  blue  eyes  —  eyes 
so  unnaturally,  even  pathetically  large,  in  contrast  with 
the  thinness  of  the  pale  face  —  softened  away.  The 
startled  expression  that  had  given  her  a  disquieting  touch 
as  of  wildness,  faded  into  appeal;  as  if,  isolated  from 
her  kind,  she  had  forgotten  the  stereotyped  phrases  with 
which  we  bridge  those  abysses  that  divide  all  personali- 
ties. 

"  It  is  robbing  you,  I  know,"  Winifred  said,  looking 
hungrily  at  the  Italian,  "  but  could  n't  somebody  else 
do  his  work?  Nobody  could  sit  for  me,  in  Agostino's 
place." 

"  You  shall  have  him,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Hurt, 
in  shy  haste.  "  It  was  just  because  he  was  staying  at 
Captain  Payne's,  to  hide,  and  wanted  work,  that  I  let 
him  come.  Take  him  at  once.  Put  up  the  spade, 
Agostino." 

Agostino  cried  excitedly,  "  I  willa  not  go,  I  willa  not 
go-a!" 

"  Put  up  that  spade,  instantly !  "  cried  the  Little 
Neighbor,  displaying  astonishing  firmness.  "  They 
won't  let  you  be  injured.  You  engaged  yourself  to  Miss 
Adams,  and  you  must  keep  your  engagement." 

Agostino  grasped  the  spade,  as  if  to  ward  off  the 
suggestion.  "  I  go  backa,  an'  dey  killa  me,"  he  ex- 

[158] 


The  Little  Neighbor 

claimed,  fiercely.  "  Dat  letter  say  if  I  notta  be  in  a 
certain  place,  de  stilletto  for  me-a.  It  come  from  de 
Mano  Nera  —  de  Black  Hand-a."  His  voice  grew  more 
concentrated ;  his  eyes  were  tigerish.  "  I  willa  not  go. 
La  Mano  Nera,  who  can  escape?  La  Mano  Nera  never 
fail-a." 

"  Oh,  what  a  great  big  man,  to  be  such  a  miserable 
coward!"  ejaculated  the  intrepid  Little  Neighbor. 
"  The  police  will  protect  you.  Give  your  letter  to 
the  authorities.  They  '11  arrest  the  author,  and  im- 
prison him." 

Agostino  laughed,  with  the  fulness  of  great  knowl- 
edge. "  Dey  bring  'im  to  trial,  yaas,  ver'  like !  Dey 
sen'  'im  to  no  prison  for  dey  prove  not'in'  at  alia. 
Maybe  great  big  man;  maybe  coward.  But  great  big 
man  not  feel  mucha  big,  widout  de  stilletto  in  my  backa. 
Quant e  vie  d'assalir  mi." 

Irving  laughed  at  the  fluent  tones  of  honest  fear,  and 
the  other  looked  at  him  as  if  to  say,  "  That 's  the  way 
you  take  it.  Very  well !  " 

"  Agostino,"  said  Irving,  "  this  lady  needs  you  in 
order  to  complete  a  very  important  work.  You  will 
go  to  her  house  to-morrow  morning."  He  named  the 
sum  of  money  offered  by  Dr.  Adams.  Agostino  waved  it 
away  excitedly  with  his  spade,  as  if  to  drown  the 
great  temptation  in  a  torrent  of  protestations.  Luckily 
Irving  beat  him  to  the  headwaters  of  threatening 
speech,  and  continued: 

"  Wait.  Listen  to  me.  You  '11  slip  over  to  Mr. 
Burl's  studio  to-night,  and  look  about  you  for  a  safe 

[159] 


Something  Else 

hiding-place,  with  the  studio  for  your  base.  Early 
in  the  morning,  before  the  Black  Handers  are  awake, 
I  '11  come  to  your  hiding-place  with  a  cab,  a  closed 
cab,  and  carry  you  to  Dr.  Adams's.  Nobody  '11  know 
you  are  in  the  city.  You  '11  stay  in  his  house  all  day, 
and  at  night,  I  '11  come  for  you,  and  drive  you  to  the 
studio  in  a  cab.  Nobody  shall  know  but  myself.  Then 
you  '11  creep  into  some  hole  or  other  —  you  ought  to 
know  plenty  —  and  in  the  morning  we  '11  repeat  the  story 
of  the  day  before ;  and  so  on,  till  your  picture  is  finished. 
I  wish  it  were  my  picture  that  Miss  Adams  wants.  Why ! 
Agostino,  it  would  be  a  regular  picnic  to  me!  Think 
of  outwitting  the  Black  Handers,  and  drawing  a  hand- 
some sum  of  money  at  the  same  time." 

"  I  not  like-a  no  picanic-a,  me,"  Agostino  protested 
violently. 

"  Let 's  reason  about  this,"  Irving  persisted,  greatly 
enjoying  the  prominent  part  he  was  playing  under  the 
respectful  observation  of  Winifred  and  the  Little 
Neighbor.  "  It 's  no  trouble  for  you  to  reach  Mr. 
Burl's  studio  undiscovered,  since  it  is  on  the  river.  All 
the  city 's  beyond  it.  Once  established  there,  surely 
you  can  hit  upon  a  hiding-place  till  morning.  If  you 
can't,  no  doubt  Mr.  Burl  would  let  you  stay  somewhere 
about  the  place.  And  think  how  much  you  're  going  to 
be  paid  for  all  your  delightful  adventure !  " 

"  I  willa  not,  I  willa  not  go-a,"  shouted  Agostino, 
now  dancing  up  and  down  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  nega- 
tion. But  suddenly  a  thought  struck  him  with  such 
force  that  he  dropped  the  spade.  His  swarthy  face, 

[160] 


The  Little  Neighbor 

convulsed,  but  a  moment  before,  in  terror,  broke  into 
an  insinuating  and  villainous  smile.  He  held  up  his 
right  hand,  and  snapped  each  finger  by  turn,  deliberately, 
delicately.  Then  he  stepped  up  to  Irving,  and  would 
have  tapped  him  upon  the  breast,  had  not  the  other 
drawn  back. 

"  So  it  is  you,'9  he  said.  "  Alia  de  time,  I  try  to 
think.  It  is  you!  And  you  know  dat  man  what  you 
talk  wid,  dat  want  de  divorce-a  ?  You  'member  dat  man, 
alia  right  O.  K.?" 

"  You  mean  the  —  the  pedler,  or  musician,  called 
Arnold?  " 

"  Yaas  him,  dat  manna,  dat  Arnold,  yaas,  Dick  Ar- 
nold." 

"  I  remember  him  very  well."  Indeed,  Irving  could 
not  look  at  Agostino  without  thinking  of  the  seedy 
socialist. 

"  Ver'  good.  Che  did!  Oh,  damma.  Yaas,  I  go 
wid  you !  " 

Agostino,  evidently  pleased  with  his  secretly  devised 
plan,  formed  an  armistice  with  respectability,  and,  in 
a  liquid  whisper,  gave  Irving  the  details.  Then  Irving 
and  Winifred  left  the  greenhouse. 

"  What  snaky  eyes  he  has ! "  Winifred  murmured, 
enthusiastically.  "  Did  you  ever  see  so  perfect  a 
Judas  ?  He  's  a  treasure." 

"  He  's  great,"  answered  the  young  man  rather  ab- 
sently. Then  he  continued,  "  And  did  you  notice  the 
Little  Neighbor's  eyes?  What  a  pity  she  won't  mingle 
with  healthy  and  well-fed  people !  She  could  be  happy, 

[  161  ] 


Something  Else 

if  she  'd  allow  herself  to  be.  Did  you  notice,  after  the 
first  shock  of  seeing  us,  how  brightened  up  was  her  face 
all  during  the  visit  ?  " 

"  Was  it  ?  "  murmured  Winifred,  vaguely.  "  I  was 
watching  my  model." 

"  Her  cheeks  seemed  fuller,  and  even  took  on  a  slight 
color."  He  glanced  somewhat  shyly  at  Winifred,  and 
thought  "  No  wonder !  "  He  added,  "  I  imagine  young 
people  never  go  there,  except  to  order  flowers.  What 
do  you  say — "  He  stopped  as  if  doubtful  of  his  im- 
pulse, yet  forced  to  humor  it  — "  what  do  you  say  to 
going  back  a  minute,  merely  to  say,  'Hello'?  She 
may  never  see  you  again." 

Winifred  looked  at  him  with  adorable  gravity.  She 
was  conscious  of  the  delicate  compliment,  and  it  had 
come  so  spontaneously  and  so  earnestly,  as  if  it  were 
all  for  the  Little  Neighbor's  benefit,  that  she  valued  it 
highly.  The  Little  Neighbor  might  never  see  her  again ! 
What  a  pity  for  the  Little  Neighbor !  And  why?  Be- 
cause Irving  thought  her  such  a  marvel  to  gaze  upon? 
Well!  They  would  return  for  a  moment  to  the  green- 
house "  merely  to  say,  '  Hello.'  " 

And  when  they  went  back,  Agostino  was  spading 
away,  with  many  a  dark  thought,  no  doubt.  But  Mrs. 
Hurt  had  retired  to  a  rustic  bench,  and  was  sitting  with 
her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  The  fragile  form  trem- 
bled. 

Winifred  whispered,  instinctively  drawing  Irving's 
arm,  to  bring  his  ear  close  to  her  mouth  (she  did  not 

[162] 


The  Little  Neighbor 

have  to  pull  so  very  hard),  "Oh!  we  had  better  slip 
away." 

They  would  have  done  so  had  not  their  feet  sounded 
upon  the  gravel  path.  Mrs.  Hurt  started  up ;  one  thin 
hand  sought  her  palpitating  heart,  the  other  brushed 
away  the  tears. 

"  We  just  came  back,"  Irving  faltered,  regretful  for 
his  impulse,  "  to  say  good-bye,  you  know.  We  did  n't 
want  anything  except  —  I  thought  you  might  like  to  see 
—  it  was  just  to  say  '  Hello.' ' 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  Little  Neighbor,  with  a  radiant 
smile  which,  in  a  way,  seemed  more  pathetic  than  her 
tears.  "Just  for  that?  How  —  sweet!"  She  came 
hastily  toward  them,  and,  as  she  reached  the  door,  paused 
beside  the  carnation-bed.  She  said,  "  One  for  each 
of—" 

"  Your  friends,"  said  Winifred. 

"  But  you  must  pin  mine  on,"  Irving  declared,  bend- 
ing his  tall  form  as  gallantly  as  he  had  lowered  his  head 
for  Winifred's  whispered  words.  "  Mother  Payne  al- 
ways does ;  and  when  she  's  made  it  fast,  she  pats  me 
on  the  shoulder  — " 

The  Little  Neighbor  rose  on  tiptoe,  and  timidly,  yet 
lingeringly,  held  her  tremulous  hand  upon  the  broad 
shoulder ;  and  patted  it ;  and  smiled  most  wistfully,  as 
if  to  say,  "  But  your  place  is  out  there  —  out  in  the 
great  world." 

And  so  it  was.  Yet  long  after  Irving  had  gone 
forth  to  mingle  in  its  strident  turmoil,  the  influence  of 

[163] 


Something  Else 

the  Little  Neighbor  made  itself  felt  most  unaccountably. 
For  sometimes,  as  he  raised  his  face  from  the  desk  in 
the  sky-scraper,  or,  it  might  be,  in  the  full  current  of 
the  tempestuous  street-life,  the  great  blue  eyes  of  the 
Little  Neighbor  would  seem  to  look  at  him  with  strange 
wistfulness,  and  he  would  feel  her  timid  touch  upon  his 
shoulder. 


[164] 


CHAPTER  XI 

BUILDERS 

ON  their  return  from  the  greenhouse,  Irving 
and  Winifred  were  silent.  The  scene  with 
the  Little  Neighbor,  though  brief  and  simple, 
had  lifted  the  young  people  to  that  plane  of  acquaint- 
anceship wherein  lips  need  not  move  to  prove  them- 
selves friendly.  As  they  appeared  at  the  door  — 

"  Come  in  and  join  us!"  called  the  hearty  voice  of 
the  disabled  tug  captain.  "  We  're  all  fine,  you  and  I, 
and  the  world  we  live  in." 

"  Do  hush,  Captain,"  his  wife  remonstrated ;  "  Miss 
Adams  won't  know  how  to  take  you." 

"  I  'm  not  a  scow,  nor  yet  a  barge,  to  be  taken  any- 
where," came  the  jolly  disclaimer.  "I'm  a  porgy- 
man,  now ;  or  will  be,  when  I  've  fought  it  out  with  my 
game  leg." 

"  Honey,"  said  Dr.  Adams  genially,  "  I  've  found  out 
all  about  porgies,  so  you  need  n't  be  afraid  to  ask.  A 
porgy  is  a  small  tug  of,  say,  a  hundred  ton ;  eh,  Cap'n  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  ton,"  the  captain  corroborated.  "  Aye, 
aye,  mate." 

Having  outlined  Agostino's  plan  of  stealing  to  Win- 
ifred's studio,  unseen  by  possible  assassins,  Irving  next 
asked  his  foster-father  how  he  and  the  Italian  ever  be- 

[165] 


Something  Else 

came  acquainted.  "  I  can't  understand,"  Irving  de- 
clared, "  why  this  ruffian  should  come  to  you  for  pro- 
tection." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  the  story,"  cried  the  captain,  heartily, 
"  but  the  doctor  must  tack  away  from  my  broken  leg. 
I  'm  surprised,  Doctor,  that  a  man  of  your  profession 
should  be  so  colliding  with  disabled  craft,  seeing  as 
there  's  no  fog  in  the  bay." 

"  Aye,  aye,  Cap'n,"  responded  Dr.  Adams,  hitching 
his  chair  farther  from  the  extended  roll  of  bandages, 
"  I  'm  luffing,  sir.  If  I  touch  you  again,  send  me  be- 
low, sir." 

Captain  Payne  grinned  in  appreciation  of  the  other's 
amiability,  and  began  his  story,  while  countless  wrin- 
kles at  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  were  spread  out  like  nets 
to  catch  memory :  "  This  Agostino,  like  thousands  of 
his  kind,  left  his  wife  and  babies  in  Italy,  and  came 
across  with  nothing  but  a  few  English  words  and  the 
clothes  on  his  back.  He  'd  heard  how  quick  we  Amer- 
icans get  rich  (I  guess  Irv  can  tell  you  all  about  that). 
Pasquale,  one  of  his  countrymen,  met  him  at  the  dock, 
and  Agostino  was  his  meat.  The  countryman  —  Pas- 
quale —  found  him  lodgings  by  subletting  him  a  room 
at  a  price  higher  than  Tie  had  to  pay.  Also,  Pasquale 
found  our  Agnostic  a  job  at  the  dumps,  you  under- 
stand." 

Irving,  recalling  the  sinister  face  of  Pasquale  in  Mr. 
Burl's  studio,  the  night  of  Du  Pays'  engagement,  failed 
to  head  off  the  speaker;  while  Winifred,  her  curiosity 
aroused,  spurred  him  on,  with  — 

[166] 


Builders 

"Dumps?" 

"  Yes,  the  city  garbage  and  refuse  heaps,  you  know," 
responded  Captain  Payne,  enjoyingly.  "  The  scrap- 
ings and  ashbarrels  are  emptied  at  certain  docks,  to  be 
hauled  out  to  sea  and  dumped  overboard.  A  con- 
tractor pays  the  city  thousands  every  year,  to  sort  out 
the  old  shoes  and  coffeegrounds.  Well,  Mr.  Con- 
tractor —  or  I  should  say  Signor  Contractor  —  puts 
the  work  under  bosses,  who  hire  heads  of  gangs,  and 
these  scrape  together  the  ignorant  immigrants  just 
come  across.  The  under-boss  has  to  squeeze  the  day- 
laborer  to  the  last  drop,  if  the  over-boss  is  to  make  any- 
thing. But  even  at  that  lick,  Aggy  did  much  better 
than  he  could  have  done  in  his  own  country,  where  the 
old  shoes  are  not  thrown  out  upon  the  heaps,  and  where, 
they  tell  me,  the  coffee  '  ain't  got  no  grounds.'  A-goose 
used  to  live  right  at  the  edge  of  his  dump  —  the  only 
home,  you  understand,  that  he  could  call  his  own.  When 
the  sanitaries  drove  him  out  of  one  hole,  he  'd  burrow 
in  another.  And  it  's  remarkable  what  an  appetite  that 
man  displayed,  eating  his  victuals  right  — " 

66  Captain !  "  his  wife  remonstrated. 

"  How  unpleasant !  "  murmured  Winifred. 

"Unpleasant?"  echoed  the  captain.  "Why,  Miss, 
could  you  have  inhaled  that  sickening  — " 

"  Captain,"  said  Mrs.  Payne  firmly,  "  enough  has 
been  said." 

"  Lay  to  1 "  cried  the  captain,  apostrophizing  his  own 
bark.  "  This  is  a  good  story,  but  my  wife  always  spoils 
it.  But  I  'm  not  in  a  fix  to  fight  it  out  with  her.  Well, 

[167] 


Something  Else 

Agostino  used  to  help  trim  the  scows,  but  I  '11  not  tell 
you  how  he  did  it.  He  kept  making  money,  till  finally 
he  had  a  scow  hired,  with  laborers  under  him,  and  Lord, 
how  he  did  squeeze  'em !  That 's  how  I  got  to  know  him, 
when  I  was  towing  his  scow  out  to  the  Hook.  I  had  a 
magnificent  tug  —  the  Hudsonia  —  it 's  gone  up,  now. 
There  was  a  miserable  rivalry  always  going  on 
among  the  dumps.  I  saved  Aggy's  life  twice,  and  he 
thinks  I  'm  the  greatest  fellow  going ;  and  maybe  I  am. 
You  see,  it  does  n't  matter  how  worthless  your  life  is, 
under  the  circumstances  it 's  the  best  you  could  have, 
or  you  'd  have  a  better  one.  A-goose  thinks  just  as 
much  of  being  saved  from  a  knife  in  the  back,  as  you  or 
I  would.  Besides,  he  is  n't  really  worthless.  He  sub- 
leases a  tenement,  and  has  a  little  joint  where  he  sells 
coal  by  the  bucketful;  so  the  poor  dagoes  who  buy  of 
him  pay  at  the  rate  of  $13.50  a  ton,  while  we  have  to 
pay  only  $6.75.  There 's  nothing  so  expensive  as 
downright  poverty.  And  so,  as  I  said,  the  Agnostic 
squeezes  the  poor  devils  under  him  just  like  Tie  was  once 

—  like  he  was  once  —  was  once  —  squz;  Lord !  I  pretty 
nigh  got  caught  in  a  box  then,"  grinned  the  captain, 
triumphantly,  "  but  I  bust  into  the  open,  just  in  time." 

"  Has  he  sent  for  his  wife  ?  "  Winifred  inquired. 

"  He  expects  to  go  after  her  next  summer  —  he  's 
been  sending  her  money,  right  along.  Curious  morals, 
those  chaps  have.  He  's  managed  to  console  himself 

—  But  I  talk  too  much  for  my  leg." 

It  must  have  been  difficult  for  guests,  the  most  re- 
served, to  hold  themselves  aloof  from  the  friendly 

[168] 


Builders 

Paynes ;  and,  since  Dr.  Adams  and  his  granddaughter 
possessed  that  most  charming  trait  of  the  truly  cul- 
tured, adaptability,  fellowship  in  the  front  room  seemed 
woven  of  a  homogeneous  texture,  in  which  finer  and 
more  homely  threads  were  scarcely  to  be  distinguished. 
Irving  valued  far  more  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
foster-parents'  natures  than  what  appeared  on  the  sur- 
face. He  had  wished  that  Winifred  might  divine  the 
undercurrents.  Her  understanding  was  even  deeper 
than  he  could  have  hoped;  and  his  pleasure  at  seeing 
Dr.  Adams  and  his  granddaughter  sitting  in  the  midst 
of  the  little  family,  as  if  joined  by  some  intimate  sym- 
pathy to  their  daily  lives,  was  greater  than  he  would 
have  deemed  possible. 

This  impression,  and  the  glow  of  satisfaction  it  im- 
parted, were  uppermost  when  his  automobile  bore  him 
with  his  two  companions  beyond  the  last  glimpse  of 
mother  Payne's  waving  handkerchief.  The  isolation  of 
country  roads,  the  sudden  glimpses  of  retired  cottages, 
each  a  world  of  home  life,  in  itself  complete,  seemed  to 
draw  the  travellers  nearer  together,  in  shutting  them  out 
from  other  people's  realms. 

But  the  restless  streams  of  pleasure-seekers  in  Jersey 
City  shattered  the  young  man's  dream-like  ramparts, 
and  the  crash  of  trains  and  the  strident  note  of  hurry, 
inundated  the  peaceful  meadows  of  his  content.  Wini- 
fred herself  stood  forth  with  disquieting  clearness  of 
outline  from  the  soft  haze  of  his  indolent,  untrekked 
dream-world. 

They  stood  waiting  for  the  ferryboat.  "  You  see !  " 
[169] 


Something  Else 

said  Winifred,  suddenly  resuming  a  conversation  which 
her  companions  had  forgotten,  and  taking  up  her  vi- 
brating tone  exactly  where  it  had  been  broken  off.  She 
nodded  emphatically  toward  the  skyline  of  lower  Man- 
hattan. "  That  is  what  I  meant.  Look  at  the  vessels, 
the  docks,  the  warehouses,  the  offices ;  then  see  how  cer- 
tain buildings  tower  above  the  rest,  cutting  the  sky  into 
scraps,  as  if  it  were  smoky  paper." 

"  But,  Honey,"  remonstrated  Dr.  Adams,  startled  out 
of  some  vision  of  the  past  by  her  energy,  "  what  are  you 
talking  about,  please?  What  is  it  you  say  you  meant? 
And  when  did  you  mean  it  ?  —  and  where  ?  " 

"  What  we  said  on  the  ride,"  Winifred  returned,  leap- 
ing over  unnecessary  chasms  to  solid  footing.  "  I 
never  see  New  York  from  across  the  river  or  the  bay, 
without  thinking  of  what  it  means  to  be  a  man.  I  never 
grow  used  to  that  sight.  It  thrills  me,  as  if  I  had  never 
seen  it  before.  Man  did  that.  How  those  huge  build- 
ings lord  it  over  their  humble  inferiors  —  the  gilded 
dome,  that  sharp  peak,  and  Park  Row  Building  which 
has  n't  forgotten  it  once  stood  highest  in  all  the  world 

—  those  giant  twin  buildings  with  the  cars  running  in 
their  basements,  the  sure-enough  tallest  buildings  in  the 
world.     Poor  little  Trinity,  doing  her  best  to  be  seen, 

—  you  hardly  know  she  's  there !  " 

Dr.  Adams  turned  to  look  into  the  face  that  had 
grown  almost  dark  in  its  eloquent  passion  for  power. 
"  You  would  be  a  Singer  Building !  "  he  declared,  "  if 
you  'd  been  built  of  stone  and  mortar.  Why,  Honey ! 
such  commercialism!  You  actually  crow  because  re- 

[170] 


Builders 

ligion  is  dwarfed  by  these  traps  laid  to  catch  dol- 
lars." 

Irving  hurriedly  rallied  to  the  doctor's  standard. 
"  Yes !  those  buildings  are  only  brick,  stone,  and  steel, 
after  all,"  he  declared.  "  It 's  those  who  inhabit  them, 
that  belong  to  real  life.  According  to  my  notion,  one 
does  n't  have  to  tower  above  others  to  live,  because  life 
does  n't  consist  in  being  seen." 

"  Which  is  fortunate,  too,"  added  the  doctor,  com- 
fortably, "  else  most  of  us  would  be  dead  'uns." 

But  Winifred  would  be  serious.  The  look  she  turned 
upon  Irving  was  too  greatly  in  earnest  to  avoid  the  is- 
sue. She  quivered  from  head  to  foot  with  exalted  con- 
viction, and  in  seeking  to  express  her  soul,  could  not 
wholly  avoid  dogmatism :  "  It  is  the  builder  who  im- 
presses the  world,  and  not  the  one  who  inhabits.  The 
world  may  pretend  to  believe  otherwise.  Of  course 
those  who  have  never  built  anything  may  buy  up  palaces 
and  towers,  but  when  you  look  at  the  buildings  you 
don't  see  who  own  them  —  only  who  built  them.  Is  n't 
that  true?  Don't  you  feel  so?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 
"  The  pyramids  have  forgotten  the  kings  who  were  en- 
tombed within;  but  they  never  let  the  world  forget  the 
hands  that  raised  stone  upon  stone."  There  was  the 
fire  of  enthusiasm  glowing  in  her  brown  eyes,  in  her 
flushed  cheeks,  above  all,  in  her  nervous  voice.  But  all 
she  had  spoken  was  at  such  wide  variance  with  Irving's 
philosophy  of  life,  that  he  refused  ignition. 

"  Well !  "  said  Irving,  turning  from  Winifred's  face 
(they  were  now  nearing  the  Manhattan  shore)  and 

[171] 


Something  Else 

staring  at  the  white  line  that  the  boat  was  cutting  across 
the  gray  surface  of  the  tide.  "  I  suppose  I  am  not  one 
to  forge  swords  for  other  men  to  wield;  or  build  houses 
for  other  men  to  enjoy.  I  suppose  I  'm  not  one  of  your 
builders,  to  leave  some  great  work  behind  me  for  lazy, 
or  incompetent  posterity  to  wonder  at." 

Dr.  Adams  waved  his  hand  and  said,  "  Here  is  life  all 
about  us,  heaped  up  from  centuries  of  preparation." 

"  And  here  am  I,"  Irving  swiftly  replied,  "  to  get 
what  I  can  out  of  it,  then  to  go  my  way,  giving  place 
to  others.  If  they  get  more  out  of  it  than  I  —  well !  so 
much  the  better  for  them;  and  so  much  the  better  for 
me,  if  I  'm  content."  He  looked  at  Winifred,  finding 
her  opposition  somewhat  sweet,  because  it  signified  that 
she  was  interested  in  him ;  and  somewhat  bitter,  because 
he  felt  that  she  might  be  in  the  right,  after  all. 

Dr.  Adams,  wishing  to  spur  his  granddaughter  to 
another  assault,  murmured,  as  in  support  of  Irving, 
"  If  literature  is  my  bent,  just  consider  all  the  master- 
pieces of  the  world.  Why  should  I  write  books,  when 
it 's  already  impossible  to  read  the  world's  best  books, 
peddled  at  every  street  corner,  thrown  in  as  prizes  with 
the  new  baking  powders,  the  new  brands  of  coffee  ?  " 

"  If  I  like  music,"  said  Irving,  aggressively,  still 
looking  at  Winifred,  who  resolutely  looked  at  the  waves, 
"  why  should  I  compose  operas,  when  so  many  match- 
less compositions  are  given  away,  to  advertise  pianos  of 
some  particular  make?  Do  you  understand  what  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  What,  what,  what !  Know  what  you  mean  ?  It 's 
[172] 


Builders 

just  like  a  primer  to  me,"  the  doctor  declared.  "  It 's 
like  some  story  I  've  heard  before." 

Winifred,  still  with  eyes  intent  upon  the  river,  smiled 
faintly,  as  if  to  say  it  was  hardly  worth  the  trouble  to 
prolong  the  useless  argument.  Then  she  seemed  to 
forget  Irving  and  Dr.  Adams  altogether,  as  a  pensive 
gravity  settled  upon  her  face.  Was  she  thinking  of  the 
Little  Neighbor,  or  of  her  success  in  the  quest  of  Agos- 
tino?  In  reality,  she  was  thinking  most  of  Irving, 
when  she  seemed  thinking  least. 

Irving's  antagonism  grieved  Winifred;  not,  of 
course,  because  of  the  personal  resistance,  but  because 
she  had  begun  to  take  an  interest  in  the  young  man ;  a 
deeper  interest  than  she  realized.  She  had  seen 
enough  of  him  to  appreciate  his  generous  qualities  and 
higher  capabilities,  and  it  saddened  her  to  think  that 
his  life,  in  spite  of  generous  promise,  might  come  to 
nothing.  She  wanted  him  to  be  more  than  a  pleasant 
and  handsome  ^oung  man,  more  than  the  young  men 
of  her  casual  acquaintance.  Somehow,  she  felt  that  he 
could  be  much  more.  She  would  have  done  a  good  deal 
to  inspire  him  with  the  aims  that  had  carried  her  to 
honorable  recognition  as  an  artist.  But  it  seemed  that 
she  had  not  learned  that  secret  touch  which  alone  can 
correct  without  hardening. 

As  for  Irving,  it  had  vaguely  floated  over  the  sunny 
skies  of  his  mind  that  he  was  not  what  he  might  be,  pos- 
sibly not  even  what  he  should  have  been ;  and  that  this 
lack,  this  possible  defect,  was  his,  not  so  much  because 
circumstances  had  refused  their  aid,  as  because  he  had 

[173] 


Something  Else 

felt  no  prompting  of  the  need.  Naturally  he  resisted 
a  reshaping  of  his  aims,  but  his  resistance  was  perverse 
rather  than  determined.  As  he  stared  at  the  white  line 
in  their  wake,  it  was  not  entirely  beyond  his  fancy  that 
he  might  one  day  —  some  day  comfortably  far  away  in 
the  future  • —  become  a  builder,  after  all. 

But  he  gave  no  sign  of  yielding,  and  Winifred  said 
no  more.  Each  stood  in  pensive  mood,  till  the  boat 
glided  into  its  slip,  just  as  the  sun  disappeared  behind 
the  silent  factories  of  Jersey  City. 


[174] 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GATHERING   OF   THE   POOR 

IT  was   growing  colder   when  Irving  parted   from 
Winifred  and  her  grandfather.     His  complicated 
task    of    getting   Agostino   to    Winifred's    studio 
might  seem  to  the  doctor  too  great  a  favor  from  one 
almost  a  stranger ;  but  Winifred  was  too  covetous  of  the 
Italian's  likeness  to  question  the  young  man's   asser- 
tion — 

"  It  '11  be  like  an  adventure  out  of  an  old  book  of 
romance ;  I  would  n't  miss  it  for  worlds !  " 

When,  after  a  hurried  visit  to  his  lodgings,  Irving 
reached  Broadway,  that  backbone  of  the  lower  city 
which,  through  mischance,  was  thrown  out  of  joint  at 
Union  Square,  pictures  of  the  river  scene  and  of  "  Lee's 
Triangle  "  vanished  from  his  mental  vision.  For  a  few 
moments  the  varied  impressions  of  the  day  were  sub- 
merged by  the  swarming  men  and  women  everywhere 
seeking  Sunday  rest  from  week-days'  toil.  He  had 
never  before  been  so  sensible  of  the  endless  procession, 
the  confusing  threads  of  diverging  footsteps,  the  ap- 
parent waste  of  human  material.  Among  the  over- 
whelming tidal-waves  of  numbers  and  differences,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  must  cling,  as  by  conscious  effort, 
to  the  anchor  of  his  personality. 

[175] 


Something  Else 

He  gave  a  rueful  little  gasp  at  the  reflection  that, 
as  all  these  people  were  interesting  to  him  only  as  a 
massed  background  for  his  thoughts  —  his  thoughts  of 
Winifred,  for  instance  —  so  to  them  he  was  but  a  drop 
in  the  sea  of  life.  How  they  swirled  and  broke  in  ed- 
dies about  the  bases  of  the  giant  sky-scrapers !  —  those 
enormous  piles  which  would  look  down  into  this  same 
chasm  when  cab  and  automobile  and  car  bore  a  new 
generation,  that  of  the  present  having  come  to  the  end 
of  its  striving.  Those  frames  of  many  stories  would 
remain ;  and  the  careless  world  would  forget  all  who 
had  enjoyed  but  had  not  built.  The  young  man  gave 
his  short  laugh;  it  was  rather  void  of  mirth,  to-night, 
yet  was  touched  with  humor  of  a  sardonic  sort,  such  as 
comes  easiest  to  those  who  are  not  builders.  Winifred's 
influence  was  beating  for  admission. 

Eight  o'clock  finds  young  Irving  standing  on  the  side- 
walk before  the  uptown  hotel  of  young  Vandever's  ap- 
pointment. We  have  seen  him  enter  that  palatial 
lobby,  money  in  his  pockets,  and  beauty  waiting  on  his 
smile,  while  on  all  sides  the  city  rioted  in  a  New  Year's 
ecstasy.  As  he  stands  at  the  curb  after  his  long  walk, 
his  is  the  consciousness  that,  of  all  the  stupidly  or 
gayly  dressed  men  and  women  flitting  from  evening 
cabs  to  before-theatre  repasts,  none  makes  the  transit 
of  gleaming  pavement  more  merrily  than  did  he,  a 
month  or  so  ago.  Alas!  not  forever  can  the  year  be 
new,  however  carefully  it  be  protected  with  renewed 
resolves.  Sooner  or  later  —  often  as  soon  as  possible ! 
—  the  threads  ravel,  and  traitorous  holes  betray  the 

[176] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

skin  that  the  garment  of  the  old  year  never  could  en- 
tirely conceal.  But  what  can  rob  Irving  of  the  glory 
that  has  been?  May  it  warm  his  legs  now,  as  the  cold 
wind  whips  around  the  corner,  and  the  pitifully  small 
leavings  of  his  borrowed  five  dollars  lie  inert  in  the 
lower  depth  of  his  pocket-world! 

His  legs  and  his  purse  are  thus  brought  to  the  sur- 
face, not  to  excite  the  commiseration  of  the  more  pros- 
perous. Those  cold  legs  but  serve  him  right,  just  as 
ours  are  undoubtedly  warm  because  of  our  deserts. 
But  they  explain  Jessie's  tears.  And  who  is  Jessie? 
Irving  might  have  asked ;  let  it  be  hoped  that  the  reader 
is  not  so  forgetful.  Jessie  thinks  he  has  forgotten  her, 
as  indeed  he  has ;  but  she  imagines  that  he  has  gone  to 
feast  with  the  rich  and  gay,  wherein  she  errs.  On  this 
cruelest  day  of  her  life,  the  day  on  which  she  finds 
herself  robbed  of  all  her  earnings  by  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse, 
the  low-voiced,  the  irreproachably  gowned,  the  comrade 
of  royalty,  poor  Jessie  fancies  that  all  the  world  has 
deserted  her,  except,  perchance,  a  tiresome  Wedging. 
She  sees  Irving  seated  at  the  board  with  Vandever  — 
Vandever  with  all  his  splendor,  with  all  his  gayety,  his 
prodigality,  and,  likely  enough,  his  Beauty  and  Stella. 
Ah,  that  is  too  much!  Yes,  there  is  Irving,  no  longer 
mindful  of  the  shopgirl,  dressed  like  a  king  —  for  can 
one  not  rent  the  purple  for  a  night?  So  thinks  Jessie 
Tiff,  passionate  tears  washing  out  her  world  from  the 
last  glimpse.  In  the  meantime,  one's  legs  are  cold;  is 
not  poetic  justice  satisfied? 

From  a  cab,  step  Claude  Vandever  and  Bird  Martin, 
[  177  ] 


Something  Else 

one  pale  and  the  other  red,  from  their  hurried  manner 
of  life;  there  are  so  many  balls  and  dinners  and  other 
functions  to  be  attended  or  avoided,  that  one  human 
body  is  not  enough  to  drag  through  the  continual  round 
of  pleasure;  a  single  stomach,  also,  seems  sadly  inad- 
equate. 

Bird  Martin  laughed  heartily,  a  little  too  noisily, 
perhaps.  "  We  had  up  a  bet  on  your  forgetting  this 
engagement,"  he  said.  "  Glad  to  see  you,  Knicker- 
bocker." 

"  But  where  's  Water  Lulu?  "  demanded  young  Van- 
dever,  his  handsome  face  plainly  betraying  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Irving,  "  I  came  to  call  it  off. 
It 's  imperative  for  me  to  be  at  Rutgers  Square  at  a 
quarter  to  nine,  and  I  have  no  time  to  lose  in  getting 
there.  I  'm  more  sorry  than  you  can  know."  He 
shook  hands  with  Vandever,  and  his  pressure  was  re- 
turned with  interest.  These  two  had  from  the  begin- 
ning taken  a  strong  liking  to  each  other. 

"Imperative?"  ejaculated  Vandever.  "Oh,  I  say, 
now !  Look  here,  Knick,  I  've  broken  three  engage- 
ments just  to  spend  the  evening  with  you  —  and  have 
a  time.  Colorado  was  going  for  the  girls,  as  soon  's 
we  'd  found  that  you  'd  kept  the  appointment.  It  '11  be 
too  bad  of  you.  Jump  in  with  me,  and  we  '11  bowl  after 
Water  Lulu,  and  Colorado  can  find  Beauty  or  some- 
body else  that  '11  do  just  as  well.  The  woods  are  full 
of  her  sort ;  but  there  are  n't  so  many  Jessie-dears,  like 
breaths  of  flowers  in  April  rain,  you  know." 

[178]  ' 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

Irving  was  not  enthusiastic.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  said, 
"  Jessie  is  a  good  girl,  an  exceptionally  pure-minded 
and  moral  little  creature.  But  I  can't  go.  The  fact 
is,  Vandever,  there 's  some  information  I  have  never 
learned  —  something  that  vitally  concerns  me.  It  has 
come  into  the  possession  of  a  tramp,  and  he  '11  be  at 
Rutgers  Square  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  and  I  mean  to 
have  it  out  of  him  by  bribes,  or  by  force." 

"  A  tramp?     How  '11  you  know  him?  " 

"  He  's  to  wear  an  old  army  coat,  and  all  his  hair  in 
its  natural  red  hue,  and  a  prodigious  red  mustache. 
He  '11  be  standing  by  the  old  fountain,  and  when  I  lay 
hands  on  him  that  secret  is  mine." 

Vandever  took  a  sudden  resolve.  "  I  '11  go  with  you," 
he  said,  adventurously.  "  Maybe  I  '11  get  to  see  some 
of  the  rent-rioting  that 's  crowding  all  the  interesting 
news  out  of  the  papers  nowadays.  I  have  a  few  tene- 
ments of  my  own  over  there,  but  I  've  never  seen  'em. 
They  're  on  Ridge  Street,  and  I  think  that 's  some- 
where near  Rutgers.  Will  you  have  me?  I  '11  stay 
with  you  till  I  meet  my  Waterloo." 

Irving  was  joyous  at  the  prospect.  "  Come  on,  Col- 
orado," he  exclaimed ;  "  I  aeroplaned  into  your  sort  of 
life  New  Year's  Eve;  now  you  take  a  dive  into  my 
sort." 

"  Not  for  mine,"  said  Martin  disconsolately.  "  I 
did  n't  leave  Cripple  Creek  to  nose  around  the  East 
Side.  No  diving-bells  for  me !  " 

"  Colly  is  such  an  ass !  "  murmured  Vandever,  ami- 
ably. 

[179] 


Something  Else 

"  But  I  have  n't  got  any  bridle  on,"  called  Martin,  as 
he  made  for  the  hotel  entrance. 

As  the  Elevated  car  bore  Irving  and  Vandever  down 
Sixth  Avenue,  they  fraternized  most  pleasantly.  Those 
thousand  topics  of  city  life  which  everybody  knows,  and 
with  which  nobody,  apparently,  has  anything  to  do, 
were  like  tiny  threads,  drawing  their  interests  closer 
together.  There  was  nothing  serious  about  young 
Vandever ;  all  things  that  came  to  him,  whether  of  pol- 
itics, religion,  literature,  life,  or  death,  were  indis- 
criminately ground  in  the  mortar  of  his  receptive  mind 
under  the  destructive  pestle  of  American  humor.  It  did 
not  seem  worth  while  to  discuss  anything,  only  to  laugh 
at  everything. 

This  exactly  suited  Irving,  or,  to  be  precise,  would 
have  suited  him  a  day  earlier.  In  some  mysterious 
fashion,  he  found  himself  not  just  what  he  had  been. 
His  laughter  was  as  easy  in  its  flow  as  formerly ;  but  at 
times  there  seemed  an  undercurrent,  moving  in  an  oppo- 
site direction,  as  if  to  check  lightheartedness.  They  left 
the  car  at  the  Bleecker  Street  Station,  and  in  the  quiet 
of  the  junction,  dark  faces  drifted  past,  like  disem- 
bodied spirits  of  evil  foreboding.  Occasionally  the 
sullen  silence  was  broken  by  whole-hearted  laughter  of 
negroes,  inspired  by  some  dim  mote-beam  of  the  ludi- 
crously grotesque.  Vandever  noticed  nothing,  but  Ir- 
ving found  himself  giving  heed  to  every  slight  incident 
of  the  journey.  All  seemed  to  have  a  part  in  the  mys- 
tery of  his  parentage. 

They  found  Mulberry  Street  unusually  active.  A 
crowd  eddied  about  the  white  face  of  Police  Headquar- 

[180] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

ters,  where  officers  were  assembling  in  orderly  form. 
Past  the  green  lanterns  jealously  guarding  the  door, 
other  crowds  drifted,  presently  to  circle  about  some  old 
woman  who  had  been  that  day  dispossessed  of  her  foul 
nest  in  a  tenement,  or  about  a  spellbinder  of  socialistic 
or  anarchistic  faith.  As  the  throngs  swept  down  the 
Bowery,  coalescing  near  Hester  Street,  one  heard  on 
every  hand  angry  denunciations  of  the  landlords, 
voiced  in  Italian,  German,  Greek,  Yiddish,  Russian  — 
everything  except  English.  Past  the  museums,  thea- 
tres, and  lodging-houses  hurried  the  mob,  seeing  noth- 
ing but  their  wrongs.  The  stamping  of  their  feet,  and 
the  increasing  roar  of  their  voices,  drowned  the  over- 
head pounding  of  the  elevated  cars,  while  the  tracks 
above  the  asphalt  beat  back  in  hollow  reverberation,  the 
discords  of  anger. 

"  It 's  a  riot !  "  shouted  Vandever,  in  his  companion's 
ear,  striving  to  be  heard.  More  than  Irving,  he  was5 
repelled  by  the  want  of  self-restraint,  by  the  frank  ex- 
hibition of  primitive  emotions,  above  all,  by  the  un- 
savory rags  and  emaciated  forms.  Of  course  these  peo- 
ple were  gripped  by  poverty.  He  was  sorry;  his  pity 
would  have  been  compassion,  had  they  been  clean  and 
plump  and  contained.  But  they  were  so  noisy  about 
their  misfortunes !  And  so  skinny,  so  gaunt,  so  di- 
shevelled, and  so  determined  to  put  the  blame  upon  those 
who  are  more  fortunate! 

Irving  shouted  his  reply :  "  They  're  charged  pretty 
high  rent,  considering  the  price  of  living.  The  land- 
lords grow  richer,  the  tenants  poorer;  there  seems  no 
limit  at  either  extreme,  and  certainly  there  's  no  sta- 

[181] 


Something  Else 

tionary  point  between.  One  is  always  rising,  or  going 
down."  Then  he  gave  his  short  laugh,  as  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  and  Vandever  were  fair  types  of  the  ex- 
tremes. 

The  relief  of  both  was  great  when  they  emerged  upon 
Rutgers  Square,  which  proved  almost  deserted.  If  the 
tramp  in  the  blue  army-coat  was  not  already  at  the 
old  fountain,  he  should  appear  within  the  next  five  min- 
utes. And  then,  would  Irving  know  all?  His  heart 
leaped. 

There  was  something  ominous  in  the  silence  of  the 
place,  when  one  considered  the  great  throngs  of  the 
discontented  poor  not  far  away.  At  such  an  hour, 
East  Broadway,  Rutgers  Square,  and  Jefferson  Street 
are  ordinarily  swarming  with  ill-clad  humanity.  Even 
the  police  squad,  whose  time  of  service  ends  at  nine, 
had  withdrawn  to  look  after  the  malcontents  in  other 
quarters.  The  fresh  squad  had  not  arrived.  Irving 
and  Vandever  were  quite  alone,  save  for  one  form  which 
lingered  near  the  old  fountain. 

It  was  the  form,  not  of  a  tramp  in  an  army-coat,  but 
of  a  young  woman, —  an  Italian,  whose  head  was  almost 
hidden  by  a  red  shawl.  She  leaned  upon  a  crutch; 
when  the  two  young  men  came  forward,  she  held  out  a 
petitioning  hand.  The  movement  threw  back  the  shawl, 
revealing  a  dark  face  whose  childlike  mouth  and  shrewd 
eyes  and  full,  comely  cheeks,  produced  a  mingled  im- 
pression of  innocence,  craftiness,  and  good  looks. 

A  thought  occurred  to  Irving.  "  Did  some  one  send 
[182] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

you  here  to  meet  Mrs.  Wyse  —  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse?  "  he 
asked.  "  She  told  me  I  would  find  a  man  here  in  a 
big  blue  coat  —  a  man  with  red  hair  — " 

The  Italian  shook  her  head,  limped  to  prove  a  broken 
leg,  and  called  for  pecuniary  treatment. 

Irving  was  sorely  disappointed,  but  the  cripple  had 
a  form  so  pleasing,  and  even  did  her  hopping  with  such 
native  grace,  that  he  was  poorer  by  a  quarter,  when  he 
and  Vandever  moved  away. 

Vandever,  as  rich  as  ever,  murmured,  "  Poor  little 
Italiana !  It  must  be  very  tiresome  to  keep  up  her  pre- 
tence ;  let  us  hope,  when  she  turns  the  corner,  she  '11 
stretch  out  that  other  leg,  and  give  it  a  good  shake." 

"  It 's  worth  a  quarter  to  me  to  believe  in  her  lame- 
ness," said  Irving,  cheerfully.  "  I  used  to  have  a  phi- 
losophy of  life  that  I  called  Taking  Things  for  Granted. 
But  now  I  want  to  change  things,  it  seems  —  things, 
or  people,  including  myself."  He  laughed  whim- 
sically. "  Look  here,  Vandever,  there  's  lots  of  money 
that  I  would  n't  give  poor  people  for  fear  I  'd  encourage 
pauperism ;  and  so  I  've  spent  it  on  myself,  to  save 
it!" 

"  Your  philosophy  is  mine,"  Vandever  declared.  "  I 
mean,  Taking  Things  for  Granted." 

"  You  can  have  it,"  returned  Irving,  "  for  I  'm  go- 
ing to  find  something  better.  Look,  Vandever,  see  the 
good  my  twenty-five  cents  has  accomplished ;  she 's 
cured  already !  " 

The  girl  had  tucked  her  crutch  under  one  arm,  and 
[183] 


Something  Else 

was  now  running  across  the  square,  as  dark  and  light 
as  a  flitting  shadow. 

"  It 's  a  signal ! "  Vandever  suddenly  exclaimed. 
"  She  's  calling  somebody.  Look,  she  's  bringing  on  a 
group  of  people  —  no,  a  crowd  —  a  mob  —  a  riot ! 
We  don't  riot  with  'em,  eh,  Knickerbocker? "  He 
seized  Irving's  arm  adding,  "  This  is  something  new  for 
me;  is  it  too  late  for  a  get-away?  " 

It  was  nine  o'clock.  As  by  a  preconcerted  signal, 
given  by  the  Italian,  five  thousand  men  and  women  came 
pouring  out  of  sidestreets  and  alleyways,  cellars,  gar- 
rets, and  bunk-houses.  The  roar  of  their  voices  as 
they  came  down  Jefferson  Street  caused  every  tenement 
window  to  be  thrown  up,  every  door  to  fly  open.  At 
the  head  of  the  angry  procession  was  drawn  an  open 
truck,  carrying  several  speakers.  Among  them,  Irving 
recognized  Dick  Arnold,  mendicant,  musician,  orator. 
From  windows,  doors,  housetops,  and  from  all  points 
of  the  street,  rose  cries  — 

"  Down  with  the  landlords  !  " 

"Down  with  the  rich!" 

"  Down  with  the  Government  I " 

66  Down  with  everything !  " 

The  truck  halted  before  the  old  fountain  of  Rutgers 
Square.  One  man  held  aloft  a  huge  banner,  while  four 
speakers,  standing  back  to  back,  cast  their  voices  to  the 
four  points  of  the  compass,  all  shouting  simultaneously, 
but  each  his  own  words.  One  harangued  in  Italian, 
another  in  German,  a  third  in  Yiddish.  Dick  Arnold 
declaimed  in  English. 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

The  tumult  was  deafening.  It  seemed  that  no  one 
cared  to  hear,  but  every  one  wanted  to  be  heard,  and  to 
a  different  purpose.  Irving  and  Vandever,  caught  near 
the  outskirts  of  the  dense  mass,  stared  at  the  spectacle, 
without  much  thought  of  the  misery  that  had  caused 
the  gathering  of  the  poor.  Irving  divided  his  atten- 
tion between  the  truck  and  the  old  fountain.  He  lis- 
tened to  Arnold's  flights  of  eloquence,  while  noting  the 
dignity  which  the  able  speaker  borrowed  from  his  very 
rags ;  at  the  same  time,  he  hoped  to  see  the  tramp,  red- 
haired  and  blue-coated,  make  his  appearance  on  the 
scene.  He  began  to  suspect  that  Mrs.  Wyse  had  in- 
vented the  story  of  the  tramp,  in  order  to  rob  Irving  as 
she  had  robbed  Jessie  Tiff. 

Not  far  from  the  young  men  were  a  group  of  an- 
archists, waving  red  flags,  and  trying  to  divert  the 
meeting  to  their  own  ends. 

"  Something  is  the  matter !  "  bawled  Arnold,  from  the 
open  truck. 

"  Yes,  with  the  Government !  "  shouted  the  anarch- 
ists. 

At  this  there  came  cries  of  "  No  red  flag ! "  and 
Arnold  continued  with,  "  We  are  tired  of  what  we  have. 
What  do  we  want?" 

A  voice  shouted,  "  Something  else !  " 

The  cry  embodied  a  universal  longing.  It  was  taken 
up  — "  We  want  something  else !  We  want  something 
else !  "  Thousands  caught  at  the  seductive  phrase.  It 
was  raised  to  heaven,  completely  drowning  out  a  futile 
attempt  to  start  the  Marseillaise.  "  Something  else  I 

[185] 


Something  Else 

Something  else!  Ah,  that  is  it,  that  is  what  we  want 
—  Something  else ! "  Tears  came  into  many  eyes. 
The  impulsive  embraced.  The  stolid  raised  their  arms 
above  their  heads.  The  excitable  danced  up  and  down. 
The  compact  mass  swayed  back  and  forth,  deliriously, 
rapturously,  passionately,  exclaiming,  "  Something 
else !  We  want  something  else !  " 

Irving,  happening  to  turn  his  eyes  from  the  truck 
and  the  fountain,  became  aware  of  snaky  eyes  observ- 
ing him.  There  were  the  narrowed  orbs  of  the  Italian 
restaurateur,  Pasquale,  him  who  was  now  seeking  Agos- 
tino.  The  shifting  gaze  was  the  same  Irving  had  ob- 
served in  the  studio,  on  the  night  of  the  tenor's  debut 
before  Mr.  Burl.  Did  Pasquale  suspect  that  Irving 
knew  the  whereabouts  of  Agostino?  Irving  felt  a  little 
shock  of  uneasiness;  and  his  foreboding  of  danger  was 
none  the  less  because  Pasquale,  finding  himself  recog- 
nized, immediately  vanished  in  the  crowd. 

Irving  turned  to  Vandever,  to  suggest  that  they 
force  their  way  out,  since  it  was  now  certain  that  the 
tramp  depicted  by  Mrs.  Wyse,  would  not  appear.  His 
disappointment  at  not  learning  his  father's  name,  was 
modified  by  surprise  at  finding  Jessie  Tiff  leaning  upon 
Vandever's  arm.  Jessie,  who  had  been  obliged  to  give 
up  her  room  at  Gotham  Repose,  was  on  her  way  to  her 
mother's  lodgings  on  Ridge  Street.  It  was  by  the 
merest  chance  that  she  had  met  some  of  her  friends  of 
the  department  store  world,  shopgirls  like  herself  who, 
attracted  by  the  rent-riots,  had  paused  at  the  out- 
skirts of  the  mob.  Here  she  suddenly  beheld  Vandever, 

[186] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

like  a  star  fallen  into  her  obscurity.  She  went  to 
him,  of  course,  and  the  triumphant  eyes  she  directed 
upon  Irving  proclaimed  the  right  and  joy  of  dis- 
covery. She  seemed  to  say,  "  You  would  have  kept  us 
apart !  " 

The  crowd  pressed  her  close  to  Vandever's  side 
where  she  was  as  safe  as  safe  could  be,  for  alas !  some- 
how she  had  lost,  for  Vandever,  that  elusive  charm  of 
"  flowers  in  April  rain."  Gallantly  he  protected  her, 
gayly  he  smiled  down  into  her  eyes.  But  his  two- 
months'  dreaming  was  far  sweeter  than  the  night's 
awakening.  In  the  brilliant  setting  of  New  Year's  Eve, 
Jessie's  simplicity  had  affected  him  as  subtly  as  a  warm 
breeze  blowing  over  those  flowers  in  April  rain,  of  which 
he  had  spoken.  But  now  she  seemed  so  much  a  part  of 
the  vast  gathering  of  the  poor,  and  so  essential  a  part, 
that  she  shared  their  fate  in  his  regard. 

He  felt,  "  This  is  where  she  belongs ;  while  I  T — "  Not 
for  a  good  deal  would  he  have  had  Jessie  suspect  his 
disillusionment;  but  the  change  was  so  marked  in  his 
feelings,  that  he  laughed  aloud,  ruefully,  one  might  have 
said  sadly  —  laughed  so  like  Irving,  that  the  latter 
cried, 

"  Vandever !  that  belongs  to  me !  "  And  so  did  Van- 
dever's feeling  about  Jessie  belong  to  Irving.  Irving 
saw  her  precisely  as  she  was  seen  by  Vandever.  But 
to  Jessie  the  world  looked  still  the  same.  She  had 
never  loved  Irving,  and  she  did  not  now  dislike  him  be- 
cause she  imagined  he  had  tried  to  come  between  her  and 
Vandever;  indeed  she  had  no  feeling  about  Irving.  In 

[187] 


Something  Else 

spite  of  all  those  dinners  they  had  enjoyed  together, 
those  quiet  evenings  in  romantic  restaurants,  those  plot- 
tings  for  happiness,  Irving  was  to  her  almost  a  stranger. 
That  was  because  she  allowed  Vandever's  image  to 
shadow  the  world.  Which  shall  be  pitied  more  sin- 
cerely: Jessie  because  she  loves  in  vain,  or  Vandever, 
because  Jessie  and  his  ideal  are  out  of  adjustment? 
Are  they  not  like  the  mob  that  roars?  Hear  them  call- 
ing, in  appeal,  in  anger,  with  tears,  with  oaths,  with 
prayers  — 

"  Something  else !  Something  else  !  We  want  some- 
thing else!  The  red  flag!  Down  with  the  red  flag! 
The  Government  overturned!  No,  the  Government 
made  better!  No  law!  All  law!  Something  else! 
Hurrah  for  the  Bomb !  Hurrah  for  the  Police !  " 

It  is  time  to  be  thinking  of  the  police,  for  here  they 
come  from  Madison  Street  Station,  brandishing  night- 
sticks, proof  against  shouts  in  their  honor,  or  their 
derision.  Public  speaking  has  taken  place  without  per- 
mits. The  police  determinedly  shove  their  way  into  a 
disorganized  mass  of  unresisting  men  and  women.  Like 
wild  beasts  before  the  hunters,  they  turn  and  flee,  this 
way  and  that,  desiring  nothing  but  escape,  falling  over 
each  other  in  the  mad  lust  for  liberty. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  says  Vandever  hastily,  "  I  'd  de- 
camp." 

"  But  you  're  not  me,"  Irving  declares.  "  I  have 
a  monopoly  on  myself,  and  nobody  's  going  to  bull  the 
market."  He  had  observed  Arnold  coming,  and  desired 
to  wait  for  the  violently  flushed  orator. 

[188] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

"  Then  I  '11  see  Jessie  out  of  this,"  called  Vandever, 
already  separated  from  his  new  friend  by  the  surging 
tide.  "  Good-bye,  Knickerbocker !  " 

Irving  was  prevented  from  answering.  An  officer  in 
dashing  his  stick  among  the  obstinate  heads  of  the 
anarchists,  had  inadvertently  struck  a  mother  with  babe 
in  arms.  Instantly  rose  a  tigerish  yell,  as  if  the  blow 
had  fallen  upon  a  hundred  hearts.  A  panic  ensued. 
Those  nearest  Irving,  not  knowing  what  had  happened, 
caught  at  the  report  that  a  bomb  was  about  to  explode. 
Their  terror  amounted  to  insanity. 

As  Irving  was  hurled  backward  by  the  frantic  popu- 
lace, he  saw  some  one  knocked  down  directly  in  his  rear. 
It  was  the  girl  who  had  imposed  upon  his  benevolence. 
She  had  long  since  discarded  her  crutch,  and  the  agility 
with  which  she  rebounded  from  the  stones,  proved  the 
perfect  condition  of  her  limbs.  Unfortunately,  she  was 
no  sooner  upon  her  feet  than  the  fleeing  crowd  knocked 
her  down  again.  Those  oncoming,  would,  without 
doubt,  have  trampled  blindly  upon  her  body, —  for  her 
head  had  struck  the  paving,  and  she  lay  half-stunned  — 
had  not  Irving  leaped  before  her. 

"  Stand  back !  "  Irving  shouted,  threatening  with 
clenched  hands.  Those  who  were  hurried  against  the 
athletic  champion  of  the  fallen,  sought  to  recoil,  but 
could  not  because  of  the  stampede.  Irving,  finding  him- 
self about  to  be  lifted  from  his  feet  and  dashed  upon  the 
helpless  body  of  the  young  woman,  made  a  determined 
resistance.  An  angry  struggle  ensued,  which  soon  be- 
came a  battle  of  one  against  a  dozen. 

[189] 


Something  Else 

Into  this  melee  suddenly  leaped  a  policeman,  with 
club  aimed  at  living's  head,  because  the  young  man  ap- 
peared to  be  the  cause  of  the  contention.  Irving,  uncon- 
scious of  the  danger  that  menaced  him,  felled  one  of  his 
burly  antagonists.  He  would  at  that  moment  have 
been  stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  ground,  but  for 
the  opportune  arrival  of  Dick  Arnold. 

Arnold,  exasperated  from  the  reaction  of  suspended 
oratory,  and  anxious  to  save  Irving  a  crushing  blow, 
grabbed,  from  behind,  the  uplifted  club,  wrenched  it 
from  the  surprised  fist,  and  brought  it  down  with  con- 
siderable violence  upon  the  policeman's  head. 

The  officer  fell.  To  speak  publicly  without  a  permit, 
is  reprehensible ;  but  to  lay  hands  upon  Law  and  Order 
is  unpardonable.  Scarcely  had  the  policeman's  com- 
rades reached  the  spot,  when  there  was  no  riot,  no  mob, 
no  scuffling  —  nothing  but  the  din  of  retreating  foot- 
steps. Dark  basement-passages  and  black  alley  en- 
trances, showed  whence  the  fluid  populace  had  melted 
away. 

One  moment,  Irving  had  stood  fighting  over  the  body 
of  an  unknown  Italian  girl ;  the  next,  it  seemed  that  the 
earth  moved  from  under  him,  or  rather,  that  an  ir- 
resistible tide  lifted  him  from  the  pavement,  to  sweep 
him  into  an  unknown  port  of  safety.  When  he  found 
his  feet,  as  it  were,  he  and  Arnold,  and  the  girl,  were 
being  ground  together  like  pebbles  in  a  millrace,  as 
the  mob  poured  along  a  narrow  street  between  squalid 
tenements. 

"Keep  on  your  feet!"  roared  Dick  Arnold.  His 
[190] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

voice  was  lost  in  the  mad  tumult.  He  squared  his 
shoulders  against  those  who  were  jammed  against  him, 
and  struggled  to  give  the  girl  air.  Irving  looked  about 
wildly,  and,  in  the  semi-gloom,  descried  a  deep  stone 
doorway  offering  shelter  from  the  suffocating  com- 
pact. 

"  That  doorway !  "  he  shouted  to  Arnold. 

They  locked  arms,  and  the  girl  proved  herself  a 
valuable  ally;  both  her  sex  and  nationality  stood  them 
in  good  stead.  The  doorway  was  gained,  and,  in  its 
shelter,  they  took  deep  breaths,  while  the  multitude 
scurried  past. 

"  Saved !  "  cried  Irving  gayly,  stanching  the  blood 
from  a  fleshwound,  and  concealing  his  excitement  in 
the  guise  of  heroics.  He  turned  to  look  more  par- 
ticularly at  the  girl,  who  was  held  tightly  against  his 
side.  She  was  pretty  enough  to  render  proximity  agree- 
able, hence  his  sense  of  disappointment  when,  without 
a  word,  she  dived  between  Arnold's  sturdy  legs,  and 
wiggled  in  amazing  fashion  from  the  doorway  to  the 
facing  street.  She  was  gone  in  a  moment.  Irving 
watched  for  her  head  to  bob  up  in  midstream,  but  she 
was  seen  no  more. 

"  Such  is  gratitude,"  Irving  gasped. 

"  No,"  returned  Arnold,  "  she  's  grateful  enough. 
Something  's  up.  Wait  and  we  '11  see.  There  it  is  — 
the  door  —  look  out  —  your  head!  " 

The  black  door,  against  which  they  were  pressed, 
had  suddenly  opened  inward,  and  a  grimy  fist  was  aimed 
at  Irving's  head.  Arnold,  unable  to  avert  the  blow, 

[191] 


Something  Else 

had  given  warning  in  time.  Irving  dodged,  then, 
wheeling  sidewise,  felled  the  unknown  antagonist.  The 
man  fell  backward.  Over  his  body  leaped  three  Italians 
from  within  the  unlighted  hall.  They  paid  no  attention 
to  Arnold,  apparently  they  did  not  observe  him.  Their 
united  efforts  were  bent  upon  overpowering  the  young 
man. 

Irving  could  scarcely  have  been  taken  at  greater  dis- 
advantage. His  breath  was  gone;  his  blow,  which  had 
delivered  him  from  the  first  assailant,  had  told  almost 
the  extent  of  his  resources.  Standing  with  back 
against  the  stone  embrasure,  unarmed,  and  not  yet  re- 
covered from  surprise,  he  faced  three  ferocious  men,  one 
of  whom  was  provided  with  brass  knuckles.  It  was  the 
latter  who  first  threw  himself  forward.  Irving  sud- 
denly slipped  to  the  ground,  to  avoid  the  murderous  as- 
sault. 

"  Donta  kill  'im !  "  called  one  of  the  assailants.  It 
was  Pasquale.  Evidently  the  object  of  the  attack  was 
to  obtain  from  Irving  the  knowledge  of  Agostino's  hid- 
ing place. 

The  brass  knuckles  rang  against  the  stone  wall.  At 
the  same  time,  Irving  reaching  up  from  the  ground, 
caught  the  would-be  assassin  by  the  legs,  and  dragged 
him  to  his  knees.  A  blow  from  Arnold  laid  the  fellow 
prostrate,  just  as  Pasquale  and  his  companion  were  rush- 
ing forward.  They  stumbled  over  the  body  of  their  ac- 
complice, and  Irving,  who  had  extricated  himself  from 
the  burden,  slipped  from  the  ledge  into  the  street. 

[192] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

In  an  instant,  he  was  up  and  away,  with  Arnold's 
hand  in  his  arm.  They  were  engulfed  by  the  mob; 
later,  when  the  crowd  diverged  and  thinned  away  down 
many  obscure  alleys,  they  breathed  freer,  finding  them- 
selves no  longer  pressed.  Arnold,  who  seemed  to  know 
every  devious  way,  wound  in  an  inexplicable  fashion 
now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left,  then  seeming  to  double 
upon  his  course.  At  last  these  two  found  themselves 
alone  among  lofty  tenements  which  looked  dim  and 
spectral  against  the  wintry  sky. 

"  Huh !  "  exclaimed  Arnold,  who  was  panting  vio- 
lently, "  I  don't  think  anybody  knows  who  laid  out 
that  policeman,  and  as  for  Pasquale's  tribe,  nobody 
cares.  I  'm  sure  they  did  n't  recognize  me."  He  gave 
a  long  whistle  — "  But  was  n't  that  a  glorious  race, 
a  magnificent  adventure !  You  must  have  knocked  over 
half  a  dozen,  at  Rutgers  Square,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
dagoes.  It  'd  be  inconvenient  if  they  'd  caught  you  red- 
handed!" 

"  I  'd  have  been  among  the  prostrate,  but  for  you," 
Irving  said,  also  panting  heavily.  "  I  wonder  what  '11 
become  of  the  Italian?  "  he  added,  mopping  his  brow, 
then  baring  his  head  to  the  cold  night  air. 

"  Oh,  she 's  safe  enough,  thanks  to  you ;  and  as 
she  happens  to  be  a  friend  of  mine,  the  thanks  are 
doubled.  I  suppose  you  '11  want  to  get  out  of  this  now, 
won't  you  ?  You  '11  find  everything  quiet  between  here 
and  Broadway.  Good-night."  The  voice  sounded  a 
little  wistful.  There  was  no  reference  to  their  former 
13  [  193  ] 


Something  Else 

meetings.     Arnold's  manner  seemed  to  say,  "  I  know 
you,  but  you  need  n't  know  me  unless  you  choose." 

"But  this  is  where  you  live,  isn't  it?"  returned 
Irving.  "  I  'm  sure  yonder  is  the  tenement  that  was  so 
carefully  described  to  me  this  afternoon.  I  was  to 
have  come  to  hunt  you  up,  at  a  later  hour,  and  since 
I  'm  already  here,  there  's  no  need  of  coming  back.  It 
was  really  a  fortunate  coincidence,  finding  you  at  Rut- 
gers Square." 

"  You  say  you  were  coming  here  to  hunt  me  up  ?  " 
the  other  exclaimed,  with  seeming  uneasiness.  "  What 
an  honor !  " 

Irving  laughed  at  the  rather  ungracious  tone. 
"  You  are  n't  overwhelmed,  luckily,"  he  declared. 
"  Yes,  I  went  to  Rutgers  Square  to  meet  some  one,  and 
later,  was  to  have  come  here  after  you.  The  fact  is, 
Agostino  — " 

Arnold  caught  his  arm,  warningly.  "  That  name 
is  n't  safe  on  the  street,"  he  whispered. 

"  But  we  are  alone." 

"  Alone !  I  have  no  doubt  a  hundred  eyes  are  watch- 
ing us.  Everything  's  quiet,  on  account  of  the  police. 
Silence  in  this  place  is  always  treacherous.  Come  up 
to  my  room,  and  we  can  talk.  Besides,  ever  since  you 
bought  pencils  of  me,  I  've  wished  you  might  visit  my 
room." 

"  You  have?  "  Irving  asked,  doubtfully.     "  Why?  " 

"  It  's  a  back  room,"  said  Arnold,  a  little  plaintively. 
'*  The  sun  never  shines  into  the  window.  Come  up 
there,  and  —  smile !  " 

[  194  ] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Poor 

Even  if  it  had  not  been  a  part  of  Agostino's  plot 
for  Irving  to  communicate  secretly  with  Arnold,  he 
could  not  have  resisted  this  invitation.  Moreover,  the 
romantic  mystery  of  Arnold's  life  interested  him 
deeply. 


[195] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IRVING    PLOTS    STRATEGY 

SO  I  owe  this  visit  to  Agostino,  do  I?  "  said  Ar- 
nold, when  Irving  Payne  entered  his  humble 
room  on  the  fourth  floor  of  the  tenement.  "  In 
that  case,  we  'd  better  lock  the  door."  He  did  so. 
"  It  is  n't  the  only  good  thing  I  've  owed  to  Agos- 
tino," he  went  on,  as  they  sat  down  before  a  little 
coal  stove.  "  You  remember  how  he  dressed  me  up  for 
the  divorce  court,  I  suppose  ?  What  a  tyrant  he  proved 
over  his  cigar !  He  's  a  hard  master,"  he  concluded, 
laughing  heartily. 

There  was  a  bed  of  coals  that  needed  stirring  and 
feeding.  Arnold  poked,  and  replenished,  without  mov- 
ing from  his  chair.  "  I  keep  everything  within  reach," 
he  said,  pushing  back  the  scuttle  with  a  lazy  foot,  and 
balancing  the  poker  across  the  lap  of  the  stove.  "  I 
can  reach  out,  and  find  anything  I  want,  on  my  table,  or 
on  this  wall, —  see  my  fiddle?  I  don't  have  to  budge 
from  my  seat.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it?  " 

Irving  never  had.  Owing  to  the  smallness  of  the 
room,  the  air  was  rather  close,  hence  was  easily  warmed. 
Everything  was  cleaner  than  one  might  have  expected. 
The  single  bedstead  was  not  hopelessly,  only  despond- 

[196] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

ently,  untidy.  Arnold  himself  was  not  scrupulously 
neat,  but  he  was  better  kept  than  his  ragged  garments 
seemed  to  warrant. 

Arnold  divined  the  other's  thought,  and  waved  his 
arm  good-naturedly.  "  I  derive  no  lustre  from  my 
surroundings,"  he  said;  "I  borrow  no  dignity  from 
my  clothes.  I  go  on  the  same  principle  that  governs 
house-insurance:  I  keep  circumstances  below  my  real 
value.  Well,  sir,  it's  uncommonly  jolly  to  see  you 
sitting  over  there.  Lord !  you  can't  imagine  how  many 
times  I  've  dreamed  of  it  and  longed  for  it.  You  see, 
I  'm  a  lonely  old  codger,  and  I  have  n't  got  anything 
except  my  dreams  and  myself.  When  I  meet  some  one 
that  takes  my  fancy,  I  imagine  him  chumming  it  with 
me,  in  my  sort  of  life  —  and  it 's  a  good  sort  of  life, 
too,  if  you  go  in  for  this  sort  of  thing  from  choice. 
Of  course  if  you  have  to  be  poor,  you  're  always  wish- 
ing you  were  n't,  or  that  other  folks  were.  But  when 
it 's  optional,  it 's  comfortable  enough." 

"  I  'm  delighted  to  know  it 's  optional  with  you,"  said 
Irving,  heartily.  "  And  I  'm  glad  to  have  a  peep  into 
your  life.  As  you  say,  I  owe  it  to  Agostino.  He  's 
hiding  from  the  Black  Handers,  over  at  my  foster- 
parents',  in  Jersey.  But  a  young  lady  who  'd  engaged 
him  for  her  model,  needs  him  so  badly  that  I  've  under- 
taken to  get  him  smuggled  into  her  studio  early  in  the 
morning." 

"  That 's  a  big  contract ;  I  hope  it 's  a  pretty  lady." 

"Both,"  Irving  nodded.  "Both,  Mr.  Arnold. 
Agostino  finally  agreed  to  spend  to-night  in  the  room 

[  197  ] 


Something  Else 

directly  across  the  hall  from  Pasquale's  bedroom.  Pas- 
quale  is  the  leader  of  the  Italian  gang  — " 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  well  enough.  So  Agostino  wants 
to  come  to  close  quarters  with  the  enemy,  does  he?  " 

"  He  says  Pasquale  would  never  dream  of  his  sleep- 
ing across  the  hall." 

"  Agostino  is  a  genius,"  Arnold  declared.  "  But  that 
room  is  occupied  by  a  lady  —  by  the  way,  the  very 
Italian  woman  whom  you  saved  from  being  mangled  by 
the  mob.  Her  name 's  Bianca.  She  is  Agostino's 
sweetheart." 

"  Agostino  said  she  was  his  clerk  in  the  coalshop." 

"  Yes,  that 's  one  of  her  capacities,  I  believe.     Well?  " 

"  Well,  Pasquale  will  suppose  Bianca  is  safe  in  her 
room;  but  Bianca  is  to  slip  out,  as  soon  as  Pasquale  is 
asleep,  and  Agostino  will  take  her  place." 

"  What  is  to  become  of  Bianca  ?  " 

"  She  will  come  here." 

"  Which  will  throw  me  out  into  the  street,  I  sup- 
pose? "  exclaimed  Arnold,  ruefully. 

"  That  was  Agostino's  plan.  He  said  you  had 
plenty  of  other  places." 

"Agostino  is  charming,"  Arnold  declared,  with  a 
grin.  "  But  I  can  understand  that  he  would  n't  dare 
come  here  himself,  since  we  are  known  to  be  friends. 
I  am  a  little  uneasy  about  him  and  Pasquale  passing 
the  night  so  close  to  each  other." 

"  But  Pasquale  will  think  the  other  room  still  oc- 
cupied by  Bianca." 

Arnold  laughed.  "Oh,  I  wasn't  thinking  about 
[  198  ] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

Pasquale's  doing  anything.  The  trouble  is,  Agostino 
will  know  that  Pasquale  is  in  reach  of  his  stiletto !  But 
we  can  leave  Pasquale  to  bother  about  that." 

It  occurred  to  Irving  that  it  was  strange  he  should 
feel  neither  aversion  nor  fear,  in  the  presence  of  this 
Bohemian.  The  fact  that  the  door  was  locked  seemed 
to  insure  safety,  and  promote  good  comradeship.  The 
table  was  overrunning  with  second-hand  books,  dingy 
and  tattered. 

"  Best  way  to  keep  your  property  from  being  stolen," 
observed  Arnold,  following  the  young  man's  gaze,  "  is 
to  have  property  that  nobody  else  wants.  I  daresay 
I  'm  the  only  man  in  the  neighborhood  who  would  rather 
read  about  a  bandit  than  be  one.  As  for  my  fiddle, 
everybody  knows  it  's  mine ;  and  I  've  played  in  the 
streets  so  often  for  the  young  people  to  dance,  they  'd 
fight  for  it  any  time,  to  restore  it  to  me.  But  you  were 
saying  that  Bianca  is  to  sleep  here,  while  Agostino 
sleeps  in  Bianca's  room.  Then  what?  " 

"  In  the  morning,  before  daybreak,  precisely  at  six 
o'clock,  Agostino  is  to  be  standing  at  the  lost-and-found 
stand  near  the  entrance  to  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  I  '11 
pick  him  up  in  a  closed  carriage,  and  whisk  him  away 
to  the  lady's  studio." 

"  Splendid !"  Arnold  lit  a  cheap  pipe  and,  leaning 
back  with  an  elbow  on  the  table,  surveyed  his  guest 
with  indolent  satisfaction.  "  I  just  can't  tell  you  how 
jolly  it  is  to  find  you  here,"  he  declared,  anew.  "  And 
it 's  such  an  amazing  coincidence,  too !  Everything 
fits  in  so  well.  If  I  had  n't  been  with  Agostino  the  day 

[199] 


Something  Else 

of  the  divorce  suit,  he  would  n't  have  dreamed  of  send- 
ing you  to  me." 

"  Did  you  get  your  divorce  ?  "  Irving  asked,  never 
ceasing  to  wonder  that  young  Vandever's  father  should 
prove  such  a  castaway.  Arnold  nodded.  Irving  volun- 
teered that  he  had  met  Claude  Vandever  twice;  had,  in 
fact,  been  with  him  at  the  mass-meeting.  To  that,  Ar- 
nold offered  nothing;  only  smoked. 

"  Mr.  Arnold  — "  Irving  began,  impetuously. 

Arnold  stopped  him,  without  apparent  intention. 
"  Wait ;  you  have  n't  told  me  how  you  happened  to  be 
at  Rutgers  Square ;  it 's  no  secret,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Irving,  checked  in  his  purpose  to  rouse  Arnold  from 
his  lethargic  condition,  was  a  little  confused.  "  No," 
he  said,  hesitatingly,  "  my  landlady  told  me  that  if 
I  would  be  there  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  I  'd  find  a  tramp 
who  could  tell  me  something  I  was  intensely  desirous  of 
knowing." 

"  Such  as,  for  instance  — " 

Irving  hesitated  again ;  but  the  kindly  eyes,  the  pleas- 
ant face,  red  and  coarsened  by  a  preponderance  of 
physical  enjoyment,  even  the  comfortable  slow  drawl  of 
the  sleepy  voice,  all  invited  confidence.  He  said,  "  My 
father's  name." 

Arnold  sat  suddenly  erect.  "What?"  he  called, 
sharply.  Then  he  grasped  his  pipe,  and  began  refill- 
ing it.  "  That 's  odd.  Excuse  my  starting.  The 
tramp  was  n't  guaranteed  to  look  anything  like  me, 
was  he?  I  'm  a  tramp,  you  know." 

"This  particular  tramp  has  red  hair  and  a  red 
[200] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

mustache,"  smiled  Irving.  "  My  landlady  —  she  was 
my  landlady  until  she  decamped  with  her  lodgers'  sav- 
ings —  was  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse.  Never  heard  of  her,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  Never.  And  if  she  's  a  thief,  likely  enough  she  in- 
vented the  tramp.  So  you  don't  know  your  father's 
name?  Your  mother's,  perhaps?  " 

Irving  shook  his  head.  "  Both  are  dead,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  They  died  when  I  was  an  infant,  and  those 
who  adopted  me  did  n't  want  to  trace  out  the  relatives, 
because  they  wanted  to  think  of  me  as  belonging  only  to 
them.  But  I  am  all  the  time  thinking,  Mr.  Arnold, 
how  surprising  it  is  that  you — " 

"  Oh,  I  daresay !  "  interrupted  Arnold.  "  I  am  very 
surprising,  I  have  no  doubt.  You  wonder  that  Claude's 
father  should  be  such  a  degenerate  as  I.  But  Claude 
is  not  so  lucky  as  you  in  one  particular.  You  don't 
know  who  your  father  was,  you  tell  me;  well,  Claude 
knows  his." 

"  He  knows  you?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  he  does  not  know  me  —  how  could 
he?  But  I  invited  his  knowledge.  I  appeared  before 
him  a  couple  of  years  ago.  I  said,  '  Claude,  you  have 
a  happy  home  with  your  mother  and  your  step-father. 
I  could  offer  you  nothing  but  a  nomadic  existence.  At 
the  same  time,  I  feel  it  is  your  due  to  make  the  choice 
yourself.  Here  I  am.  Know  me,  if  such  is  your  de- 
sire.' It  was  not  his  desire.  Of  course  it  was  not  his 
desire!  I  was  in  Agostino's  best  rented  clothes,  too. 
I  even  wore  a  tie.  But  it  was  not  his  desire." 

[201] 


Something  Else 

Arnold  stirred  at  the  fire,  which  reddened  his  face 
more  than  ever.     Irving  mused  deeply.     Then  he  spoke : 

"  But  that  was  n't  his  fault,  Mr.  Arnold.  It 's  yours. 
Leave  this  unworthy  life.  Be  yourself.  In  every  word 
and  gesture,  you  show  that  you  could  be  a  man  among 
men,  not  a  drifting  wreck."  Irving  was  embarrassed, 
but  he  persevered :  "  You  call  yourself  a  degenerate. 
You  call  yourself  a  tramp.  And  you  say  that  Agostino 
is  your  master  —  that  Italian  trimmer  of  the  dump- 
scows  !  You  accept  these  surroundings ! "  Irving 
started  up,  impulsively.  "  Mr.  Arnold !  Come  back  to 
yourself.  Take  your  place  in  the  world  that  needs  you. 
Let  me  help  you."  He  gave  his  nervous,  high-tension 
laugh.  "  This  is  my  first  attempt  at  this  sort  of  thing. 
But  I  'm  terribly  in  earnest.  I  can't  leave  you  here  to 
mould  and  decay  in  your  cellar-life."  He  was  sadly 
impeded  by  that  fear  of  being  ridiculous  which,  like  a 
weight,  drags  so  often  at  the  heels  of  good  resolve. 
But  the  next  moment  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  as  if  to 
draw  the  mendicant  from  a  material  quagmire.  "  Let 
me  help  you !  "  His  manner  was  theatrical  in  the  sense 
that  the  theatre  catches,  at  times,  those  moods  in  which 
one's  real  self  forgets  to  hide  behind  convention's  mask. 

Arnold  stared  at  him  strangely.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand, of  course.  Shall  I  tell  you?  But  how  can  I? 
Yes.  When  I  was  Mrs.  Vandever's  husband  —  when 
she  was  Mrs.  Arnold  —  something  happened,  which  was 
so  entirely  my  own  fault,  and  which  cut  me  off  so  ir- 
revocably from  society,  that  no  one  could  defend  me, 
no  one  could  claim  me  as  a  friend.  What  I  was  ac- 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

cused  of  I  could  not  deny,  it  was  too  open;  and  I  did 
not  want  to  deny,  for  what  I  did  was  done  because  I 
wanted  to  do  it,  right  or  wrong.  What  it  was  is  no 
matter ;  but  it  was  so  big  a  thing  that  it  simply  blotted 
me  out.  You  see?  For  a  man  can  do  a  thing  bigger 
than  himself,  something  to  raise  him  above  himself,  or 
to  destroy  his  life.  And  when  I  did  this  thing  which 
was  bigger  than  myself,  and  found  that  it  had  forever 
cast  me  down  —  forever,  you  understand  —  it  was  my 
part  to  make  the  best  of  it.  That 's  what  I  'm  doing 
now.  Look  around  you.  This  is  the  best  of  it!  Sit 
down,  my  friend,  and  don't  look  so  troubled." 
"  There  's  something  better  than  this." 
"  Not  for  me.  After  I  did  that  thing,  I  tried  to  hide 
myself.  But  it  was  no  use.  The  man  I  had  been  could 
not  be  hidden.  I  decided  to  become  a  different  man. 
Therefore  I  sought  the  extreme  of  respectability  and 
dignity.  I  became  the  tramp.  One  thing  was  left  to 
me,  and  is  with  me  still  —  the  love  of  life.  The  life  of 
a  tramp  is  not  such  a  sad  affair  —  see  how  many  follow 
it  from  choice!  There  is  all  the  ease,  and  enjoyment 
of  food,  and,  above  all,  the  irresponsibility;  nobody  ex- 
pects anything  of  you ;  you  go  here  or  there,  it 's  no 
matter ;  this  is  your  home,  then  that  —  the  open  air, 
the  moving  train,  New  Orleans,  Seattle,  with  the  return 
to  New  York.  But  I  must  n't  dilate,  or  you  will  be 
tempted  to  try  it  yourself.  Sometimes  one  plays  the 
fiddle  in  a  restaurant-orchestra,  but  is  not  bound  to 
stay ;  or  labors  as  a  farmhand  in  Missouri,  or  Kansas, 
just  for  a  taste  of  home-cooking  and  the  feel  of  sweat 

[203] 


Something  Else 

on  a  sunburned  brow;  and  the  little  children  come 
sometimes  and  lean  against  one's  knee,  big-eyed  and  un- 
afraid, just  as  one's  very  own  might  have  done." 

"  But  even  now  — "  Irving  tried  to  say.  The  other 
interrupted : 

"  And  there  's  nothing  else  for  me.  What  I  did  cut 
me  off  from  my  own  rank,  clouded  my  name,  ruined  me, 
as  the  Arnold  who  had  been  respected.  I  tell  you, 
there  's  no  going  back.  But  I  'm  content  with  my  life. 
Don't  you  think  it  sounds  rather  pleasant,  after  all? 
Let  me  tell  you  about  Bianca.  Perhaps  you  know  that 
the  sea  occasionally  washes  up  a  quantity  of  sand  and 
forms  little  islands  hereabouts,  bits  of  land  that  belong 
to  nobody  except  Neptune.  There  is  such  an  island 
at  the  mouth  of  Sheepshead  Bay  that  came  up  from  the 
sea  in  a  night,  as  it  were.  I  lived  there  for  years ;  in- 
deed, it 's  my  summer  home.  The  tramps  have  taken 
possession  of  it.  Bianca's  father  lived  there.  Bianca 
grew  to  love  me  —  just  a  tiny  thing,  then.  A  man  is  n't 
all  bad  when  a  child  loves  him,  eh?  I  want  to  be  buried 
there.  Very  fitting,  you  '11  allow  —  the  unclaimed 
tramp,  buried  in  No  Man's  Land." 

"  Fitting !  "  cried  Irving,  strangely  indignant.  "  No ! 
I  tell  you,  no!  It 's  a  real  tragedy,  this  story  you  tell 
me  —  a  lost  life,  a  lost  opportunity.  And  even  if  it 
contents  you,  don't  you  owe  something  to  the  world? 
How  is  the  race  to  be  uplifted,  if  each  shirks  his  part?  " 

"Have  you  done  anything  for  the  race?"  inquired 
Arnold,  with  his  slow  smile. 

Irving  seemed  to  see  Winifred  standing  before  him. 
[204] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

"Have  you  paid  your  debt  to  the  world?"  Arnold 
persisted.  "  Is  society  any  the  better  because  of  you? 
If  you  die,  will  some  great  work  for  mankind  be  sus- 
pended? But  stop!  You  are  very  young,  my  dear 
boy.  Let 's  vary  the  question:  Have  you  planned  any 
great  deed?  Have  you  resolved  to  be  of  any  use? 
Have  you  any  prospect  that  when  you  die  —  say  at 
seventy  or  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand  —  something  will 
stop  beside  yourself?  " 

Irving  grinned  somewhat  ruefully,  and  Arnold 
laughed  outright,  as  he  refilled  his  pipe,  an<J  sent  forth 
wide,  thin  rings  of  leisurely  smoke. 

"  I  know  you  work  hard  enough,"  resumed  Arnold ; 
"  your  dress  shows  that,  and  the  care  you  take.  Is  the 
work  just  for  yourself,  or  for  mankind?  Don't  you 
devote  the  earnings  to  pleasure?  In  a  word,  are  you  a 
respectable  tramp?  And  if  so,  don't  we  differ  merely  in 
degree?  You  like  smart  society,  and  strive  for  it;  I  like 
a  good  meal  and  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  they  come  with- 
out much  striving.  Neither  of  us  does  anything  to  help 
the  old  world  along.  My  dear  boy,  we  are  both  tramps, 
take  my  word  for  it.  And  now  I  'd  better  hunt  up 
Bianca,  and  tell  her  what 's  expected.  Stay  till  I  come 
back,  so  you  can  carry  Agostino  word  that  all 's  ar- 
ranged. If  you  like  a  good  tale,  help  yourself.  I  have 
the  entire  two  hundred  and  ninety-one  volumes  by  Du- 
mas in  those  boxes,  and  I  've  read  only  about  two  hun- 
dred. Courage,  my  friend ;  I  've  no  doubt  they  '11  hold 
out  as  long  as  I  do,  and  I  ask  nothing  better.  I  might 
find  better  books  - —  to  remind  me  of  my  faults !  But 

[205  ] 


Something  Else 

these  of  good  Dumas  pere  —  well,  they  make  me  for- 

get!" 

There  was  something  irresistibly  winning  in  the  broad 
humor  of  the  man's  red  face.  Irving  could  not  forbear 
a  laugh,  though  he  felt  uneasy.  "  I  have  n't  given 
you  up,"  he  declared,  as  Arnold  drew  on  a  tattered 
overcoat. 

"  When  I  come  back,  we  '11  discuss,  if  you  will,"  said 
Arnold.  "  But  I  'd  rather  read  a  book  aloud,  and 
catch  your  eye  between  pages.  I  '11  hurry  back." 

But  Arnold  did  not  return ;  neither  did  Irving  open 
any  of  the  paper-backed  books  that  strewed  the  table. 

It  was  Bianca  who,  in  no  great  time,  opened  the  door, 
to  discover  Irving  sunk  in  profound  meditation.  He 
started  to  his  feet,  at  sight  of  the  dark  face  —  in  which 
showed  a  dull  red, —  then  recognized  the  coarse  black 
hair,  the  comely  form.  She  explained  in  halting  Eng- 
lish that  Arnold  had  been  discovered  before  Pasquale's 
coalshop.  He  would  be  shadowed  henceforth,  therefore 
dared  not  come  home,  lest  it  be  discovered  that  Irving 
was  his  friend.  Bianca  had  come  to  say  that  she  would 
expect  Agostino.  As  she  showed  no  embarrassment 
about  the  money  she  had  obtained  under  false  pre- 
tences, Irving  made  no  reference  to  her  discarded 
crutches. 

"  You  understand,"  Irving  said,  "  that  you  are  to 
give  up  your  room  to  Agostino,  while  you  come  here  to 
spend  the  night  ?  " 

She  understood.  And  Irving  had  better  wait  till  she 
had  gone,  before  he  slipped  from  the  tenement.  And 

[206] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

Arnold  wanted  Bianca  to  get  a  book  from  the  table  in 
which  a  torn  letter  marked  the  place  —  a  book  by  some 
one  called  Signor  Doom-iss,  if  Bianca  was  not  mistaken. 
The  book  was  "  Ange  Pitou." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Irving,  carelessly,  willing  to  de- 
tain her  a  moment,  because  the  red  shawl  over  the  dark 
face  presented  a  picture  not  displeasing  — "  I  suppose 
you  know  that  Agostino  is  married,  don't  you  ?  " 

Bianca  waved  her  arm  assuringly  toward  the  South. 
"  She  over  dere,"  she  answered  remotely.  "  In  Fiesole ; 
dat  ver'  far  over  de  sea,  Fiesole." 

"  Perhaps  Agostino  will  go  to  Fiesole,  one  day,  to 
fetch  her,"  Irving  suggested. 

"  No,"  said  Bianca  confidently.  "  Oh,  no  !  Agostino, 
he  make-a  much  mon',  him.  I  helpa  ver'  much.  I 
sell-a  de  coal,  w'ile  he  oversee'  de  dumps.  He  do  not'in' 
widout  Bianca.  You  ver'  good  to  me  to-night,  you. 
You  helpa  me,  maybe  save  my  life-a.  I  not  forgetta 
dat."  She  paused  at  the  door.  Suddenly  she  asked, 
with  smouldering  eyes,  "  W'y  you  say  he  maybe  go  to 
Fiesole?  He  better  not!  He  ver'  much  better  not  go 
for  dat  woman !  She  an'  de  kids  not  ver'  safe-a  in  New 
York." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Irving,  seriously.  "  How  many  chil- 
dren has  Agostino  ?  " 

"  Two  —  free  —  I  know  not  how  many,"  returned 
the  other,  shaking  her  head.  "  Dey  over  dere  —  Fie- 
sole. We  not  talk-a  'bout  de  kids.  He  care  not'in' 
for  dem,  an'  he  hate  dat  woman.  W'enever  I  ask  'im, 
he  tella  me  dat  right,  0.  K.  An'  I  not  forget  w'at  you 

[207] 


Something  Else 

done  for  me,  to-night."  But  no  word  about  the  twenty- 
five  cents. 

Having  waited  until  he  felt  it  safe  to  venture  forth, 
Irving  left  the  tenement,  and,  in  due  time,  encountered 
the  stinging  wind  as  it  swept  up  the  side  streets  from 
the  Hudson,  to  swing  around  the  crazy  corners  of 
Greenwich  Village.  As  he  stamped  up  the  outside 
stairs  of  the  Weehawken  house,  he  was  obliged  to  grasp 
the  solid  plankguard  to  keep  from  being  blown  upon 
the  rough  flags. 

Mr.  Burl  was  in  his  studio,  working  away  at  a  por- 
trait under  the  green  light;  Irving  noticed  at  once  that 
the  face  was  not  that  of  Mrs.  Vandever,  although  the 
canvas  was  the  same.  "  Oh !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  've 
altered  it;  and  now  Miss  Adams  will  contend  that  it 
never  was  Mrs.  Vandever's  picture." 

"  Prove  that  it  was,  if  you  can,"  returned  Mr.  Burl, 
his  face  as  solemnly  impassive  as  usual.  Indeed,  the 
picture  was  fast  ceasing  to  be  that  of  any  face;  it  was 
dissolving  in  brown  and  gray  streaks  of  mist.  Agos- 
tino  crouched  at  a  corner  of  the  fireplace,  as  if  to  take 
up  as  little  room  as  possible. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Burl,  nodding  toward  the 
sullen  Italian,  "  I  am  painting  the  picture  of  Agostino's 
mind.  Well,  is  Bianca  ready  to  give  up  her  room?  " 

When  Agostino  was  gone,  Irving  complained,  "  But 
it  was  a  pity  to  ruin  Mrs.  Vandever's  likeness,  for  it 
was  a  splendid  portrait." 

To  that,  Mr.  Burl  made  no  reply.  "  What  I  want 
you  to  do,"  he  said  abruptly,  laying  aside  his  brush, 

[208] 


Irving  Plots  Strategy 

"  is  to  sit  in  yonder  armchair,  late  as  it  is,  and  tell  me 
every  word  of  your  adventures;  and  as  a  reward,  you 
shall  have  the  spare  bedroom.  For  the  bicycle-lamp  is 
not  in  the  window.  Confess,  Irving,  that  you  didn't 
look  to  see  if  it  was  there !  " 

"  The  fact  is,  so  many  things  have  happened  — " 

Mr.  Burl  shook  his  head.  "  But  you  really  must 
look  for  it,  my  boy.  It  would  be  a  very  serious  matter, 
if  you  should  ever  run  upon  Somebody  in  my  studio. 
So,  in  the  morning,  you  're  to  take  our  Agostino  to  Dr. 
Adams's,  in  a  cab,  are  you?  Why,  your  adventures 
are  n't  half  ended !  " 

"  Not  half,"  said  Irving,  who  was  sleepy,  but  still 
enthusiastic.  "  And  the  best  is  to  come." 

Mr.  Burl  nodded  emphatically  as  he  rejoined,  "Yes, 
Winifred  is,  by  all  odds,  the  best." 

"  And  since  Claude  Vandever's  sister  is  spending  the 
night  there,"  murmured  Irving,  "  who  knows  but  I  may 
meet  her,  too?  " 

"Who  knows  —  anything?"  said  Mr.  Burl,  thus 
closing  that  chapter  of  the  young  man's  thoughts. 


[209] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IRVING'S  ADVENTURE  WITH  HIS  SOUL 

WHAT  a  day  that  had  been !     Just  the  kind 
Irving  Payne  so  dearly  loved,  and  so  sel- 
dom found  scattered  among  the  dull  col- 
ored days  of  his  bread-winning  existence.     Each  half 
hour  had  contained  a  full  chapter  of  romantic  happen- 
ings.    For  a  long  time  he  lay  awake  in  Mr.  Burl's  spare 
bedroom,  lingeringly  reviewing  the  pleasing  history : 

Chapter  First:  the  chat  with  Wedging;  the  scanda- 
lous disappearance  of  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse;  the  borrowed 
five  dollars,  and  the  kindness  of  the  Du  Pays.  Chapter 
Second :  the  brief  visit  to  the  Adams  mansion ;  the  swal- 
low flight  through  the  Subway  with  Winifred ;  the  ferry- 
transit;  and  the  automobile  dash  through  the  open 
country.  Chapter  Third:  Captain  Payne  with  his 
bandaged  leg;  the  Little  Neighbor  with  her  timid  hand 
upon  Irving's  shoulder;  and  Agostino  holding  the 
spade,  terrified  at  his  appearing.  Chapter  Fourth :  the 
return  with  Winifred  and  Dr.  Adams.  Chapter  Fifth: 
keeping  the  appointment  with  young  Vandever,  with  the 
unexpected  sequel  of  the  mob  at  Rutgers  Square,  and 
the  heroic  defence  of  Bianca.  Chapter  Sixth:  the 
flight;  the  conversation  in  Arnold's  room  at  the  ten- 
ement; the  coming  of  Bianca.  Conclusion:  the  return 

[210] 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

to  the  studio;  the  altered  face  on  Mr.  Burl's  canvas, 
and  the  dark  form  of  Agostino  as  it  glided  out  into  the 
night ;  the  late  monologue  at  the  fireside,  with  Mr.  Burl 
for  listener,  and  the  day's  adventures  for  the  subject. 

It  was  a  whole  book.  Or  rather  it  was  a  series  of 
pictures.  As  the  young  man  tossed  restlessly  to  and 
fro,  minor  details  and  minor  characters  became  subor- 
dinated to  central  ideas.  As  in  a  book  one  naturally 
gives  greatest  interest  to  a  chosen  few,  so  in  his  memory 
Irving  dwelt  longest  upon  two  in  the  day's  drama  — 
Winifred  Adams,  and  Arnold.  It  was  indicative  of  the 
profound  impression  Dick  Arnold  had  made  upon  him, 
that  this  tramp  should  prove  a  rival  in  his  recollections 
of  Winifred.  The  Paynes,  the  Du  Pays,  Mr.  Burl,  and 
Agostino  and  Bianca,  even  young  Vandever  and  Jessie, 
were  lost  in  the  dim  perspective  that  defined  his  con- 
centrated thoughts.  Winifred  and  Arnold  not  only  re- 
mained, but  seemed  each  the  corollary  to  the  other. 
Their  life  stations  were  so  irreconcilably  different  that 
their  association  in  his  mind  demanded  explanation.  It 
was  easily  found. 

In  the  first  place,  on  his  way  to  his  foster-parents', 
Winifred  had  suggested  to  Irving  his  worthlessness  to 
the  world.  On  his  return  to  New  York,  she  had  deep- 
ened the  sombre  impression.  During  the  brief  stay  in 
the  squalid  room  of  the  East  Side  tenement,  Arnold 
had  advanced  the  same  theory. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  Arnold  had  said,  "  we  differ  merely 
in  degree.  We  are  both  tramps." 

Previous  to  that,  Winifred  had  declared  with  glow- 
[211] 


Something  Else 

ing  enthusiasm,  "  It  is  the  builder  who  impresses  the 
world,  not  he  who  inhabits." 

Irving  found  himself  unduly  impressed  by  this  unan- 
imity of  condemnation.  He  told  himself  that  his  in- 
terest in  what  others  thought  of  him  was  abnormal. 
He  tried  to  dismiss  both  verdict  and  jury  from  con- 
sciousness, but  he  could  neither  forget  nor  fall  asleep. 
He  found  himself  arguing.  It  was  a  mistake  to  as- 
sume that  the  world  is  impressed  only  by  builders ;  the 
world  is  impressed  by  those  who  can  make  a  show,  a 
sensation.  If  one  builds  up  a  great  book,  who  knows 
it  before  the  builder  is  dead?  If  one  builds  up  a  life  of 
public  service,  he  is  a  politician,  not  a  statesman,  until 
he  has  passed  beyond  earthly  reward. 

Besides,  suppose  one  does  not  impress  the  world;  is 
he  therefore  a  tramp?  Irving's  outlook  upon  life  had 
been  from  a  strictly  personal  viewpoint.  One  works  a 
mine,  not  to  give  men  a  livelihood  as  diggers,  but  to  get 
out  the  gold.  Irving  had  been  delving  laboriously  in 
the  mine  of  life,  since  his  employment  at  the  railroad 
office;  he  had  ignored  baser  metal  in  seeking  the  thin 
golden  vein  of  pleasure.  That  had  seemed  far  more 
valuable  than  the  homely  ores  he  had  been  obliged  to 
cast  aside.  The  result  of  his  labors  had  pleased  him 
for  an  hour,  but  had  done  the  world  no  good.  What 
of  it?  What  of  himself?  What  of  life? 

At  one  moment  he  recalled  Winifred's  eloquent  face 
and  voice,  he  saw  her  luminous  eyes  burning  from  dark 
brown  to  translucent  amber:  to  her,  life  meant  so 
much!  Then  appeared  Arnold's  face,  through  whose 

[212] 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

red  good-humor  a  former  refinement  seemed  remotely 
struggling:  to  him,  life  meant  so  little!  Winifred  saw 
the  need  of  the  world.  Arnold  recognized  only  the 
right  to  enjoy  his  life  in  his  own  way.  And  both  put 
Irving  upon  Arnold's  side. 

Sleep  had  grown  impossible;  not  only  so,  but  Irving 
felt  an  ever-increasing  impatience  of  restraining  walls. 
lie  heard  the  west  wind  whistling  around  the  corner,  as 
if  calling  him  to  come  forth.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
obeyed  without  other  urging,  in  spite  of  the  cold.  A 
new  call  sounded  in  the  tap  upon  his  window,  a  sharp 
tinkling  sound  of  gravel  upon  glass.  Was  it  an  acci- 
dent, or  a  summons?  Irving  rose  upon  his  elbow  and 
listened  intently.  The  wind  rushed  past.  The  momen- 
tary hush  was  broken  by  a  louder  blow  upon  the  pane. 

Irving  leaped  to  the  floor,  and  looked  out.  The 
street  was  dim  from  a  distant  grime-obscured  light,  and, 
in  this  appropriate  dimness,"  Agostino  was  to  be  seen, 
crouching  beneath  the  window. 

Irving  uttered  his  name  in  distasteful  surprise. 
Surely  the  morning  was  soon  enough  for  the  crafty 
dealer  in  coal! 

Agostino  said  nothing.  He  was  there;  it  was  for 
Irving  to  question  why.  Irving  questioned,  sharply 
emphatic. 

It  then  appeared  that  Agostino  had  changed  his  mind 
about  meeting  Irving  the  next  morning,  near  the  en- 
trance to  Brooklyn  Bridge.  Everybody  meets  at  the 
bridge  entrance.  The  world  would  be  there.  Che!  a 
hundred  men  would  observe  Agostino.  Pasquale  him- 


Something  Else 

self  might  lie  in  ambuscade,  or  a  dozen  capable  Black 
Handers.  It  was  not  that  Agostino  feared  the  devil; 
he  did  not  anticipate  harm  from  that  source,  or  from 
any  other.  But  to  be  seen,  that  was  the  point,  to  be 
seen  —  no,  Signor,  it  could  not  be !  Even  his  saints  in 
Heaven  must  despair  of  his  safety,  if  he  were  seen ! 

"  Does  all  this  mean,"  demanded  Irving,  in  disgust, 
"  that  you  are  trying  to  break  your  engagement  with 
Miss  Adams  ?  " 

Oh,  as  Heaven  and  the  holy  angels  were  his  witnesses, 
nothing  of  the  sort!  But  a  safer  rendezvous  must  be 
selected.  If  the  young  gentleman  would  follow  him, 
Agostino  would  indicate  the  spot.  He  would  not  men- 
tion the  street,  lest  spies  be  listening.  He  could  not 
mention  it,  because  he  had  not  yet  determined  —  it  is 
best  to  have  no  thoughts  in  one's  head,  when  the  Black 
Handers  pursue;  even  thoughts  can  be  read.  But 
hush !  Would  Irving  follow  from  afar,  noiselessly,  and 
in  shadow? 

Irving  would  follow.  Agostino  furnished  the  ra- 
tional excuse  for  obeying  his  impulse  to  flee  from  the 
bed,  the  room,  the  house.  He  dressed  quickly,  and  soon 
was  in  the  street.  As  Agostino  slouched  along  in  ad- 
vance, Irving  followed  down  the  crooked  streets,  feeling 
a  queer  elevation  of  spirits  in  finding  himself  under  the 
open  sky;  and,  with  the  sinister  form  of  the  Italian 
sometimes  half  lost  from  view  and  never  distinctly  de- 
fined, the  young  man  thought  less  and  less  of  him,  and 
more  and  more  of  the  problem  that  had  begun  to  absorb 
his  mind. 

[214] 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

At  the  crossing  of  Fourth  Street  and  West  Tenth,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  his  moral  domain  was  laid  out  in 
just  such  incongruous  paths  —  ways  that  bent  back 
and  turned  upon  themselves.  Was  he  essentially  a 
tramp?  Not  because  Arnold  had  said  so,  but  because 
his  conscience  declared  the  truth?  Not  because  Wini- 
fred was  a  splendid  young  creature  of  lofty  ambitions 
and  high  aims ;  not  because  she  thought  so,  but  because 
Irving  made  confession?  Not  because  the  world  would 
hold  him  so  —  that,  at  least,  was  no  question.  The 
world  does  not  regard  a  man  as  a  tramp,  so  long  as  he 
asks  for  nothing. 

But  Irving  had  now  reached  the  point  where  it  mat- 
tered not  so  much  what  Arnold  thought,  however  good- 
natured;  or  Winifred,  however  fair  of  face  and  form; 
or  the  world,  however  indulgent.  What  did  Irving 
think?  what  judgment  must  he  pass  upon  himself? 
That  was  the  question  at  present;  and,  owing  to  his 
highly  wrought  state  of  mind,  influenced  doubtless  by 
the  nervous  condition  of  one  who  needs  sleep  but  can- 
not find  it,  this  question  clamored  for  solution.  It 
seemed  to  the  young  man  that  all  other  problems  of  life 
must  be  suspended  until  he  had  the  answer  to  himself. 
It  was  not  so  much  what  life  was  for,  as  what  was  the 
use  of  himself.  Nor  was  it  so  imperative  for  him  to 
decide  of  what  use  he  was  to  the  world,  since  the  expla- 
nation of  that  was  far  from  complex,  as  whether  or  not 
it  was  needful  for  him  to  be  of  use.  In  a  word,  was  life 
for  him,  or  was  he  for  life? 

His  trend  of  thought  was  so  unwonted  that  when 
[215] 


Something  Else 

he  reached  Broadway,  it  was  as  if  he  had  wandered  into 
a  strange  land;  that  was  because  he  had  grown  strange 
to  himself. 

The  theatres  had  been  closed  for  several  hours. 
Cabs,  hansoms  and  taxicabs  whirled  past,  making  more 
light  in  the  thick  fog  than  did  the  yellow  gaslights  of 
the  all-night  restaurants.  The  huge  signs,  which  not 
long  before  had  given  the  street  the  right  to  be  called 
the  "  Great  White  Way,"  were  dying  out,  or  had  al- 
ready lost  their  incandescent  glory.  Agostino  turned 
aimlessly  toward  the  south  as  if  going  nowhere  in  par- 
ticular. Irving  felt  what  the  other  expressed.  He 
cared  nothing  about  the  destination. 

One  of  those  sudden  February  changes  that  some- 
times lend  spring  fragrance  to  the  breath  of  winter  was 
abroad.  The  fog  increased,  but  its  humidity  became 
almost  warm.  Occasionally  Irving  asked  himself  why 
the  skulking  form  of  the  cat-footed  Agostino  seemed  less 
real  to  him  than  the  vision  of  Winifred's  pursuing  face, 
and  Arnold's  rags.  One  seemed  calling  him  to  arms; 
the  other  to  inglorious  peace.  The  first  suggested 
arduous  endeavor ;  the  second,  a  purposeless  life  of  ease. 
Both,  however,  were  in  accord  on  one  point.  Winifred 
seemed  to  say  that,  as  matters  stood,  she  really  saw  very 
little  difference  between  Irving  and  Arnold;  Arnold 
seemed  to  say,  "  Of  course  there  's  no  difference.  Both 
of  us  are  tramps." 

Irving's  thoughts  grew  concentrated;  they  focussed 
upon  this:  "  What  is  the  use  of  my  life?  "  It  was  no 
longer  a  foregone  conclusion  that  he  must  be  merely 

[216] 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

an  atom  in  the  city  mass.  There  stirred  within,  the 
desire  to  differentiate  himself  from  his  fellows.  The 
very  desire,  undirected  as  yet,  and  not  quite  sure  that 
it  was  in  earnest,  sent  an  odd  thrill  throughout  his  body ; 
it  was  not  unlike  the  effect  of  a  deep  draught  of  spark- 
ling wine.  Unconsciously  he  caught  a  larger  breath. 
He  thought, 

"  If  /  should  become  one  of  the  world's  builders?  " 

Agostino  did  not  stop  in  his  southern  course  till  the 
Battery  was  almost  reached.  Suddenly  he  dived  into 
obscurity,  and  at  first  Irving  feared  him  lost;  but  he 
reappeared  among  the  jumbled  sailors'  quarters  on 
South  Street,  and  indicated  with  crooked  finger  the  door 
at  which  Irving  would  find  him  in  the  early  morning. 
After  this  evasive  gesture,  he  did  in  truth  vanish. 

Heartened  by  this  disappearance,  Irving  faced 
about,  neither  sleepy  nor  weary.  His  new  idea,  which 
as  yet,  was  hardly  a  resolution,  kept  stirring  his  blood : 
"  If  I  resolve  to  become  one  of  the  world's  builders  ?  " 
Accompanied  by  that  thought,  he  roamed  the  streets 
all  night  long,  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time. 

He  reached  Thirty-eighth  Street,  at  the  hour  before 
dawn,  the  most  silent  hour  in  the  city.  Practically  all 
the  street  lights  were  extinct.  The  pavements  were 
blackened  by  shadows  of  giant  buildings  which  brooded 
over  the  scene  of  vanished  life.  They  assumed  a  sinis- 
ter aspect,  as  if  darkly  triumphing  in  the  knowledge 
that  though  the  workers  would  come  on  the  morrow,  no 
doubt,  and  on  the  morrow  after,  a  day  must  come  when 
other  hands  would  take  up  their  feverish  toil.  There 

[217] 


Something  Else 

was  now  no  sound  of  wheels  or  hoof-beats ;  the  cars 
passed  only  at  long  intervals  like  empty  shadows  of 
phantom-life.  Occasionally  an  evasive  form  slipped 
from  some  side  street,  bent,  as  Irving  might  well  sup- 
pose, upon  no  honest  business.  Once  he  came  upon  a 
standing  policeman,  fast  asleep,  his  back  propped 
against  a  darkened  lamp  post. 

Life  seemed  at  a  very  low  ebb,  as  if  its  flow  might 
cease  altogether.  In  the  darkness  and  silence,  Irving, 
abnormally  introspective,  saw  a  symbol  of  his  own  end, 
when  the  fever  of  his  day  should  chill  to  nothingness. 
Once  in  a  while,  a  sudden  blinding  flash  would  spurt 
out  of  the  gloom  as  startling  as  the  quick  glare  of  an 
arc-light,  caused  by  nothing  but  a  flaming  match  at  the 
end  of  an  unlighted  cigar.  Then  it  would  go  out  in  a 
gloom  more  depressing  than  before  the  relief.  "  Just 
like  me,"  remarked  Irving,  grimly  prophetic. 

In  front  of  dull-faced  saloons  and  noiseless  restau- 
rants, strange  objects  stood  in  rows,  more  like  Oriental 
jars  for  the  hiding  of  AH  Baba's  trustful  thieves,  than 
garbage  barrels  awaiting  the  carts.  Underfoot  was  the 
crush  of  an  unending  carpet  of  newspaper  fragments, 
cast  up  by  the  vast  tide  of  humanity  out  of  the  deep  of 
a  day's  doings.  Far  away  up  the  hushed  canyon  of 
Broadway,  shone  one  lonely  light  from  as  far  away  as 
Forty-second  Street.  It  was  one  note  of  hope  in  the 
night's  sigh  of  desolation. 

As  the  blackness  began  to  merge  into  heavy  gray, 
Irving's  thoughts  were  diverted  from  himself  in  con- 
templating his  approaching  expedition  to  the  Adams 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

home.  The  all-night  restaurants  grew  a  paler  yellow 
in  the  haze  of  dawn.  Cabmen,  waking  up  in  their 
boxes,  down  the  lonely  side  streets,  clattered  into  audi- 
ble existence,  for  the  possible  call  of  tipsy  fares.  As 
Irving  hailed  one  of  these  cabs,  the  milk-wagons  were 
dashing  recklessly  along  the  way  —  as  if  to  extinguish 
some  fire  with  the  water  in  their  cans.  The  surface- 
cars  showed  the  drooping  heads  of  early  workmen,  half- 
nodding  upon  their  breasts;  baskets  and  lunch-cans 
were  held  listlessly  upon  knees  not  yet  rested  from 
labors  of  the  previous  day. 

As  Irving  was  driven  toward  the  spot  where  he  was 
to  find  Agostino,  he  passed  parties  of  young  men  in 
half  a  dozen  hansoms,  on  their  way  to  Central  Park, 
to  dissipate  the  inconvenient  fumes  of  revelry.  Mad- 
ison Square  swam  like  an  emerald  mystery  in  the  bil- 
lowy shreds  of  vapor,  and  the  Flatiron  cut  the  fog 
like  a  knife,  sending  it  drifting  up  the  streets  on  either 
side.  When  Irving  at  last  picked  up  Agostino  to  bear 
him  back  to  Madison  Square,  the  city  had  caught  its 
deep  bass  monotone  which  it  was  to  hum-m-m  through 
the  course  of  another  day. 

Irving  fancied  he  detected  a  new  air  about  Agos- 
tino's  slinking  form.  It  was  natural  that  he  should 
shun  all  eyes,  for  if  the  Black  Handers  discovered  that 
he  was  in  the  city,  they  would  either  extort  from  Bianca 
a  revelation  of  his  hiding-place,  or  include  her  in  their 
vengeance.  And  yet,  Agostino  seemed  not  so  much  to 
be  shrinking  from  observation,  as  to  be  on  the  watch 
himself.  As  the  swarthy,  crisp-haired  Italian  sat  face 

[219] 


Something  Else 

to  face  with  the  young  man,  never  uttering  a  word, 
unless  compelled  by  the  American's  remorseless  spright- 
liness,  it  even  seemed  that  his  show  of  terror  was  con- 
siderably exaggerated.  Why  did  he  continually  press 
his  face  to  the  window,  to  stare  at  the  increasing  crowds, 
instead  of  holding  himself  secure  in  his  dark  corner? 
Yet,  if  not  afraid  of  discovery,  why  did  he  continually 
moisten  his  lips  with  his  crimson,  cat-like  tongue,  that 
little  flickering  as  of  flame  that  impressed  Irving  so 
unpleasantly  ? 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  servants'  entrance  of  the 
Adams  mansion.  Agostino  slipped  to  the  ground, looked 
in  every  other  direction  than  that  of  the  house,  then 
glided  toward  the  open  door,  still  with  head  turned  over 
his  shoulder.  The  butler  was  on  guard,  to  be  treated 
as  a  man,  or  a  post,  as  the  guests  thought  best.  \ 

"  Pretty  early,  is  n't  it,  Williams  ?  "  said  Irving, 
cheerfully  —  he  had  heard  the  name  but  once.  "  But 
when  you  're  hiding  from  the  Camorra  or  Mafia,  be- 
cause they  've  taken  a  notion  to  initiating  you,  and  if 
you  object  to  riding  the  goat,  the  quicker  you  're  in- 
doors the  better ;  eh,  Agostino  ?  " 

"  Che  I  "  grunted  Agostino,  who  seemed  not  so  in- 
terested in  getting  indoors,  as  in  seeing  who  passed  in 
the  street.  A  footman  took  him  in  charge. 

Irving  was  conducted  to  a  reception-room,  off  from 
the  drawing-room;  it  was  bright  and  cosey,  producing 
an  instantaneous  impression  of  homelikeness.  When 
left  alone  before  the  open  fireplace,  he  warmed  himself 
in  a  deep  content,  lazily  enjoying  the  varying  red 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

glows  cast  along  polished  surfaces  from  the  tiptoeing 
flames.  He  breathed  deeply,  as  if  to  inhale  the  in- 
tangible atmosphere  of  refinement  and  family  affection. 
It  was  now  broad  daylight,  but  a  grateful  twilight 
lingered  in  the  room,  as  if  to  soften  the  edge  of  the 
day's  reality. 

When  Winifred  entered  —  it  might  very  well  have 
been  Dr.  Adams,  but  see  how  fortune  smiles  upon  us !  — 
he  was  impressed  not  only  by  the  kindliness  of  her  face, 
but  by  its  perfect  health  and  unaffected  loveliness.  She 
had  the  added  charm  of  appearing  before  him  in  the 
early  dawn,  an  hour  that  inevitably  suggested  domes- 
ticity, almost  intimacy  of  companionship.  To  a  young 
man  of  lodging-house  isolation,  nothing  could  have  been 
more  charming.  It  was  like  a  breath  from  some  higher 
sphere,  to  which  his  lungs  were  not  accustomed. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Winifred,  cheerily.  It  was 
the  second  time  they  had  shaken  hands.  "  I  '11  never 
be  able  to  repay  you  for  all  your  trouble  in  bringing 
me  my  model.  I  knew  that,  when  I  consented  to  your 
plan.  But  I  am  a  dreadfully  selfish  creature,  when 
my  work  is  in  question.  See  how  I  've  put  myself  in 
debt  to  you !  I  'm  so  remorseful  —  but  not  really  re- 
pentant, I  'm  afraid,  for  I  'd  have  to  let  you  do  it  again, 
under  the  same  circumstances.  I  must  go  to  have  a 
look  at  him,  to  be  sure  he  's  all  here !  He  's  such  a 
treasure.  Will  you  mind?  I  '11  be  back  immediately." 

Irving  had  not  interrupted,  because  it  was  so  much 
pleasanter  to  hear  her  voice  than  his  own.  But  now  he 
roused  himself  with,  "  It  was  no  trouble ;  there  was  no 


Something  Else 

end  to  the  adventure  of  it!  However,  my  mission  is 
ended  now,  Miss  Adams.  I  turn  him  over  into  your 
hands.  And  I  must  go  out  to  work,"  he  added,  with  a 
gay  smile,  "  with  my  own." 

Winifred  laughed,  and,  as  on  the  day  of  their  first 
meeting  in  the  studio,  the  sound  reminded  him  of  a 
meadow  brook  among  stones.  "  You  are  not  to  go  just 
yet,"  she  declared.  "  My  grandfather  would  never  for- 
give me  if  I  let  you.  Please  tell  me  you  '11  stay.  You 
are  to  have  breakfast  with  us,  and  it  will  be  ready  in  a 
moment.  The  whole  house  has  been  turned  topsy-turvy 
to  humor  my  designs  upon  the  Italian." 

Of  course  he  would  stay.  The  graciousness  of  her 
manner,  as  if  making  him  one  of  them,  touched  him 
with  a  new  dignity.  "  And  there  's  something  I  would 
like  very  much  to  tell  you,  Miss  Adams,"  he  said  im- 
pulsively ;  "  something  I  've  been  thinking  about  all 
night.  I  haven't  worked  it  out,  completely,  but  I  be- 
lieve, with  your  help,  I  can  come  to  some  sort  of  a  de- 
cision." 

"  I  will  not  be  gone  long,"  said  Winifred.  The  words, 
and  her  manner  were  disappointing.  They  had  become 
impersonal.  No  doubt  in  his  eagerness,  he  had  per- 
mitted his  eyes  to  reveal  too  plainly  the  depth  of  his  re- 
gard. She  had  not  refused  his  confidence,  but  her  polite 
reserve  had  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  put  into  words 
what  he  but  vaguely  felt.  After  all,  was  it  better  to 
remain  silent  concerning  that  night's  strange  indeci- 
sion? It  might  come  to  nothing. 

As  he  thought  it  over,  he  was   glad  Winifred  had 


living's  Adventure  with  His  Soul 

checked  his  impulse.  If  he  ever  resolved  to  be  more 
than  he  had  been,  not  prediction,  but  fulfilment  should 
be  offered  such  a  girl  as  Winifred  Adams.  "  A  very, 
forceful  character,"  Irving  mused.  (His  ideal  of 
womanhood  had  never  included  the  quality  of  forceful- 
ness.)  He  stood  before  the  fire,  hands  in  pocket.  "  No 
softness,  no  yielding  timidity,"  he  reflected.  (His  ideal 
of  womanhood  had  always  included  softness  and  ti- 
midity.) "She's  splendid,"  he  murmured;  "but 
she  'd  always  keep  a  fellow  keyed  up  to  his  highest 
pitch.  She  deserves  a  royal  husband,  a  real  man. 
It  '11  be  no  summer  picnic  for  him,  either ! " 

Irving  shook  his  head,  smiling.  Then  he  looked 
about  the  charming  little  room,  and  expanded  in  its 
comfort.  "  Old  man,"  he  apostrophized  himself,  "  a 
fellow  would  n't  ever  have  to  toss  up  balls,  here !  " 


/il 
CHAPTER  XV 

THE   JERRY   ROMANCE 

"W*  ^T  TH3EN  the  door  again  opened,  Irving  had 
%  /%  /  definitely  decided  to  say  no  more  to  Wini- 

y  y  fred  about  the  battle  that  had  been  waged 
in  his  mind  during  the  midnight  hours.  However,  it 
was  not  Winifred,  but  a  girl  of  about  eighteen,  who 
started  to  enter,  then  halted  irresolutely.  Irving  knew 
it  must  be  Miss  Vandever ;  there  was  no  resemblance  to 
Claude  Vandever,  but  that  was  explained  by  the  fact 
that  Claude  was  Mrs.  Vandever's  son,  and  she  who 
looked  into  the  room  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Vande- 
ver. Happily,  there  was  no  connection  between  this 
dainty  little  heiress,  and  the  tramp,  Arnold. 

"  I  thought  Miss  Adams  was  here,"  she  murmured. 
Here  was  no  question  of  propriety,  but  whether  or  not 
the  good-looking  young  man  might  prove  interesting. 

"  No  one  is  here  but  Mr.  Payne,"  said  Irving, 
quickly.  "  May  he  present  himself  to  Miss  Vandever?  " 

Miss  Vandever  entered,  and  approached  the  fire- 
place, saying,  "  We  got  over  that  very  nicely."  Her 
face  was  rather  small,  but  exceedingly  bright.  It  was 
lighted  up  with  white  flashes  when  she  spoke.  She  was 
dressed  as  a  schoolgirl  who  is  soon  to  put  away  her 
books,  and  add  an  inch  or  more  to  her  skirts.  At 


The  Jerry  Romance 

present,  the  heavy  dark  hair  hid  her  ears  and  nar- 
rowed her  face,  though  the  brow  was  left  high;  and 
this  narrowing  of  the  clear  white  full-view,  together  with 
the  pointed  chin,  usually  held  slightly  up-tilted,  gave 
an  air  of  tantalizing  piquancy.  Even  her  manner  was 
sharp  in  outline,  each  swiftly  changing  mood  clear- 
cut,  standing  out  for  itself,  with  no  promise  of  being 
merged  into  a  fresh  emotion. 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Vandever  continued,  "  Miss  Adams  told 
me  how  hard  it  was  to  get  you  here,  but  she  does  n't 
mind  hard  work.  Of  course  one  will  work  awfully  hard 
to  have  a  good  time,  but  she  will  take  any  amount  of 
trouble  just  for  nothing1  —  I  mean,  just  for  some  serious 
object,  you  know!  But  of  course,  she  isn't  going  to 
paint  you  before  breakfast,  is  she  ?  "  she  added,  inno- 
cently. 

"  Unfortunately,"  said  Irving,  who  suspected  that 
she  knew  better,  "  if  I  am  ever  portrayed,  I  '11  have  to 
do  it  myself." 

"  I  fear  in  that  case,"  said  Miss  Vandever,  holding 
her  foot  to  the  fire,  "  that  the  picture  will  flatter  you." 

"  No,  it  won't,"  Irving  declared,  "  for  I  dote  on  my 
faults." 

It  did  not  matter  how  brightly  the  flames  darted  their 
rays,  for  the  foot  was  perfect.  "  I  am  afraid,"  ob- 
served the  other,  with  a  thoughtful  look  at  Irving,  "  that 
you  may  not  be  able  to  see  beyond  them." 

"  Yes,  indeed.     You  are  beyond  them,  and  I  am  not 
only  pretty  well  pleased  with  myself,  but  with  you,  too." 
That  was  invited  by  her  daring  attack. 
15  [  225  ] 


Something  Else 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  solicitously,  "  but  is  that  good  for 
you?  "  She  was  quoting  a  line  from  the  latest  popular 
play.  Every  one  ought  to  know  that  her  catch-words 
called  for  the  stereotyped  answer  — "  What  is  good 
for  me,  is  bad  to  me."  Not,  of  course,  that  there  was 
any  sense  in  it,  but  because  a  ready  answer  proved  that 
you  knew  what  was  what. 

Irving,  instead  of  meeting  the  test,  sidetracked  with, 
"  Thank  you  for  considering  my  welfare."  He  was 
charmed  with  the  little  creature.  This  rapid  fire  of 
subtle  nothings,  this  adventurous  impudence  which  good 
looks  alone  could  excuse,  was  precisely  after  his  own 
heart.  He  hoped  Winifred  would  take  a  very  long  look 
at  Agostino,  and  that  Dr.  Adams  would  sleep  late. 

But  Miss  Vandever  was  disappointed.  Irving,  she 
reflected,  was  handsome  and  quick;  but  neither  good 
looks  nor  a  quick  brain  outweighs  what  everybody 
knows.  Still,  she  ought  to  try  him  again ;  from  some 
mysterious  reason,  he  might  have  been  prevented  from 
hearing  of  the  play,  though  if  he  was  anybody,  the  sup- 
position was  astounding. 

"  Where  is  the  connection  ?  "  she  asked.  This  was 
the  title  of  the  latest  popular  novel,  with  each  copy  of 
which  went  a  coupon  whereon  the  reader  might  hazard 
his  guess  as  to  which  of  the  three  heroes  the  heroine 
preferred.  This  coupon,  if  sent  to  the  publisher  be- 
fore a  certain  date,  accompanied  by  half-a-dollar,  stood 
a  chance  of  winning,  as  prize,  a  grand  piano.  It  was 
incumbent  upon  Irving  to  answer,  "  I  have  n't  sent  in 
my  guess,"  or,  "  I  have  n't  paid  my  fifty  cents  to  find 

[226] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

out,"  or  something  equally  apropos  and  equally  fatu- 
ous. 

But  Irving  answered,  "  Somewhere  in  the  future,  I 
hope,"  thus  falling  into  the  grave  he  had  already  dug. 

Of  course  she  had  known  he  did  not  belong  to  her 
set,  but  now  she  concluded  that  he  did  n't  belong  to 
anybody  else's.  He  was  henceforth  to  her  as  an  in- 
fidel, or  a  Turk,  or  a  book-agent.  From  her  fourth 
year  she  had  lived  in  one  of  New  York's  largest  hotels, 
in  charge  of  maids  and  governesses,  and  directly  under 
the  influence  of  well-tipped  and  exceedingly  wise  young 
bellboys;  her  intimates  had  been  the  children  of  other 
divorced,  or  loosely  connected  parents.  If  there  was 
anything  in  the  ways  of  the  world  of  their  own  set  un- 
known to  these  petted  children  of  fortune,  they  would 
have  liked  to  know  what  it  was,  and  would,  doubtless, 
have  found  out. 

When  the  divorced  J.  S.  Vandever  took,  as  his  sec- 
ond wife,  a  lady  who  had  divorced  her  first  husband, 
his  daughter  was  fifteen.  Up  to  that  time,  her  sphere 
had  been  the  hotel-world ;  but  so  infinite  was  its  variety 
that,  to  her  mind,  it  contained  everything  worth  while. 
During  the  three  years  of  her  father's  second  marriage, 
she  had  changed.  Hotel  influences  had  been  as  fixed 
upon  her  girl's  heart,  as  letters  cut  in  stone;  but  a  se- 
clusive  school,  a  refined  home,  and  a  careful  step-mother 
had,  as  it  were,  superimposed  new  symbols  upon  the  old 
stone-cuttings.  To  speak  of  her  algebraically,  she  was 
the  same,  plus  x.  That  addition  was,  as  yet,  an  un- 
known quantity.  What  she  had  been  —  what  to  a 


Something  Else 

softened  degree  she  was  still  —  cooled  her  interest  in 
Irving.  If  he  could  not  talk  in  the  language  of  the 
day,  she  would  not  talk  to  him  at  all. 

There  was  silence,  during  which  she  wished  Winifred 
would  return,  and  Irving  hoped  she  would  n't.  At  last, 
she  remarked  with  a  supercilious  glance  that  would 
have  been  disagreeable,  had  her  good  looks  permitted, 
"  You  understand,  I  am  only  an  understudy.  I  have  n't 
set  out  yet." 

«  Still  in  school?  " 

"Well  — theoretically." 

"  Then,"  smiled  Irving,  "  what  is  good  for  you, 
seems  bad  to  you  ?  " 

She  caught  her  breath,  and  a  spot  of  red  showed  in 
her  cheek.  "  Treachery !  "  she  cried,  accusingly. 

"  And,"  Irving  added,  in  triumph,  "  I  did  n't  spend 
my  fifty  cents  to  find  the  connection !  " 

So  he  had  known  all  the  time  —  known  about  the 
play,  about  the  book,  and,  best  of  all,  had  known  how 
to  conceal  his  knowledge.  He  must  know  everything! 
Her  relief  was  so  great  that  she  laughed  from  pure 
pleasure.  The  young  voice  rang  out,  a  little  sharp 
perhaps,  a  trifle  louder  than  Winifred's,  but  irresistibly 
infectious.  Irving  laughed  with  her,  delightedly. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  she  exclaimed,  pointing  her  fin- 
ger at  him,  "  I  took  you  for  an  Indian  ?  " 

They  were  still  laughing  when  Winifred  returned, 
accompanied  by  her  grandfather.  The  newcomers  were 
not  at  all  surprised  at  sounds  of  mirth  from  these  two, 

[228  ] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

so  recently  strangers,  because  Dr.  Adams  understood 
Irving  thoroughly,  and  Winifred  knew  Miss  Vandever 
to  the  innermost  fibre  of  her  complex  being.  Pres- 
ently all  were  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  Winifred  at 
the  head;  the  doctor,  of  course,  at  the  foot;  Miss  Van- 
dever on  one  side,  and  Irving  in  Paradise.  To  the 
young  man  there  was  a  zest  about  the  morning  hour 
impossible  to  the  others,  a  zest  heightened  by  allowing 
his  mind,  at  sly  intervals,  to  steal  away  to  eating  wag- 
ons and  hot-coffee  stands,  and  the  partitioned  corner  of 
Mr.  Burl's  studio. 

When  Irving  first  heard  Miss  Vandever  addressed  as 
"  Jerry,"  he  thought  himself  mistaken ;  afterwards,  he 
accepted  it  as  a  most  fitting  name.  "  Jerry  "  was  per- 
haps not  poetic ;  neither  was  the  bearer  of  the  name ; 
it  suggested  something  masculine,  and  there  was  a 
knowingness  about  this  girl  which  spread  out  rather 
thinly  over  an  immense,  territory  of  knowledge,  utterly 
at  variance  with  the  old-fashioned  notion  of  femininity. 
Jerry  acted  upon  Irving  like  champagne,  stimulating, 
vivifying,  carrying  him  beyond  himself,  yes,  much 
farther  than  his  usual  mark, —  as  a  man  may  jump  with 
a  strong  wind  at  his  back.  She  was  as  intensely  mod- 
ern as  himself,  as  Winifred,  as  Jessie  Tiff.  All  lived 
in  to-day,  but  each  so  differently,  they  were  connected 
by  little  else  than  the  day's  span. 

When  Jerry  addressed  Irving,  as  she  did  almost  ex- 
clusively, his  answer  was  bubbling  to  the  surface  before 
her  lips  had  paused.  After  his  response,  she  would 


Something  Else 

come  again,  with  a  flash  of  light  all  over  her  face ;  then 
he  would  meet  her  with  sabre  stroke.  And  so  it  went 
on. 

Dr.  Adams  watched  them  with  a  sort  of  paternal 
satisfaction.  He  had  known  Jerry's  mother  before  her 
first  marriage;  he  had  been  her  family  physician  for 
so  many  years  that  the  step-daughter  was  to  him  a 
mere  child  in  short  dresses,  whose  ankles  were  still  to 
have  a  look  at  the  world  for  a  long,  long  time.  Per- 
haps she  would  never  grow  up.  Her  very  name  stood, 
to  the  doctor,  not  for  worldly  wisdom,  but  for  imma- 
turity. She  was  only  Jerry  —  why  should  n't  she 
laugh,  and  talk  nonsense,  and  make  unblushing  ad- 
vances to  Irving?  So  the  old  fellow  listened  with  that 
smile  that  caused  his  chin-dimple  to  quiver.  What  they 
were  saying  was  not  worth  a  snap  of  his  finger ;  it  was 
the  way  they  said  it  that  rested  his  mind.  Both  of 
them  were  deluded  with  the  notion  that  their  words  had 
pith.  The  doctor  knew  them  to  be  nothing  but  words ; 
but  he  knew,  as  well,  that  his  knowledge  of  their  futility 
had  been  paid  for  by  a  good  many  years  at  the  bar- 
gain counter  of  Experience. 

So  the  genial  physician  did  not  secretly  laugh  at 
them  because  they  thought  themselves  wise;  and  by  no 
means  did  he  betray  that  he  looked  upon  them  as  very 
young.  It  matters  not  how  carefully  the  old  cover 
up  the  traces  of  their  age,  if  they  let  their  conscious- 
ness of  difference  peep  through. 

As  for  Winifred,  charming  and  gracious  hostess,  and 
perfect  friend,  she  withdrew  entirely  behind  the  coifee- 

[230] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

urn,  that  Jerry  might  have  all  the  glory  of  conquest. 
Her  thoughts  were  so  engaged  with  details  of  her  day's 
work,  that  Jerry's  visit  seemed  most  opportune.  Wini- 
fred was  not  always  equal  to  light  repartee  when  paints 
and  canvas  and  a  great  idea  called  from  the  attic 
studio.  But  she  had  the  tact  not  to  mar  the  fine  web 
that  others  were  spinning,  though  she  might  not  add  a 
silken  thread  of  her  own.  There  was  no  hint  to  Irving 
of  her  serious  purposes,  nor  of  her  lack  of  sympathy 
in  his  frivolous  view  of  life.  If  Irving  fancied  her 
farewell  smile  too  distant,  he  misunderstood  the  reason ; 
as  she  saw  him  depart,  she  was  thinking  less  of  him  than 
of  Agostino. 

When  Irving  went  to  his  downtown  office,  he  felt  that 
something  had  entered  his  life  to  make  it  fuller  and 
richer.  His  night's  adventure  into  unknown  aspira- 
tions was  half  forgotten.  All  day  long  the  blue-prints 
smiled  down  upon  him  as  celestial  trimmings  to  the 
whiteness  of  his  joyous  memories  of  the  early  morning. 
Those  blue-prints  had  been  ugly  until  to-day.  What 
a  bright  day  was  to-day,  to  be  sure !  —  so  full  of  flash- 
ing thoughts  and  stimulating  light-points!  And  are 
not  all  eyes  gray  ?  —  and  all  hair  scalloped  in  dark 
waves  over  tiny  ears  ?  And  all  ankles  —  what  shall 
we  say  ?  There  is  no  word. 

Jessie  had  had  ankles,  too,  once  upon  a  time;  but  do 
we  think  of  them,  we  who  are  to  return  to  Dr.  Adams's 
at  dusk,  to  carry  off  Agostino  to  hiding,  in  our  cab 
and,  incidentally  —  think  of  that  incidentally  —  to  eat 
dinner  with  Dr.  Adams  and  Winifred  and  —  and  Jerry ! 

] 


Something  Else 

But  where  else  should  we  go?  where  else  eat?  What 
know  we  of  lodging-houses,  or  dingy  little  restaurants 
with  sanded  floors?  Surely  it  was  not  we  who  thought 
ourselves  happy  with  Jessie  Tiff  by  our  side,  her  hard- 
worked  little  fingers  lying  in  our  palm?  We  still  bear 
the  name  of  Irving  Payne,  it  seems,  though  even  that 
should  be  something  else,  so  far  removed  are  we  from 
a  world  that  any  Wedging  inhabits.  Thus  have  the 
white  face-flashings  of  a  young  girl  consumed  the  foun- 
dations of  our  high  resolves,  consumed  them  so  thor- 
oughly that  we  do  not  suspect  we  are  treading  in  ashes ! 

At  dusk  Irving  —  for,  after  all,  there  is  only  one  of 
him  —  betakes  himself  to  the  brownstone  of  departed 
fashion,  in  whose  neighborhood  a  few  siren-voices  are 
still  to  be  heard,  faintly  calling  above  the  roaring  rocks 
of  commercialism.  And  as  he  goes,  it  seems  almost  in- 
credible that  he  has  seen  Jerry  Vandever  but  a  brief 
hour;  indeed,  it  is  incredible;  for  he  has  seen  her  dur- 
ing the  entire  day.  He  has  the  right  to  feel  that  he 
knows  her  well.  It  is  odd  how  one's  blood,  or  muscle, 
or  bone,  can  tingle,  shooting  forth  little  pains,  long  be- 
fore the  days  of  rheumatism!  The  thought  of  Jerry's 
vivid  personality  produced  such  pains,  much  more  old- 
fashioned  than  she.  Of  course  it  was  not  love,  so  brief 
had  been  the  acquaintanceship.  And  yet,  love  has  no 
more  need  of  time,  than  has  eternity  for  day-clocks. 
So,  he  might  have  fallen  in  love,  only  he  had  not ;  though 
he  told  himself,  one  never  knows. 

It  was  a  marvellous  Jerry  who  sat  opposite  him  at 
dinner,  a  Jerry  a  thousand  times  more  coruscating, 


The  Jerry  Romance 

more  scintillating,  more  divinely  luminous,  than  any 
Jerry  could  possibly  be  at  half-past  six  in  the  morning. 
The  fact  is,  Jerry  was  greatly  pleased  with  Irving;  he 
was  new  to  her  experience,  varied  as  that  experience 
was,  and  he  proved  so  adaptable !  And  Jerry,  from  her 
baby  days,  was  accustomed  to  going  after  anything  she 
wanted.  Therefore  she  went  after  Irving,  with  all  sail 
spread,  taking  the  highest  sea  with  a  firm  hand  on  the 
rudder. 

She  was  used  to  conversational  bouts  with  young 
fellows  to  whom  a  college  or  university  atmosphere  ad- 
hered, youths  who  give  you  blow  for  blow,  as  quickly 
as  you  send;  the  efficiency  of  the  blow  depending  not 
upon  force,  but  on  rapidity  of  execution.  Irving  gave 
not  only  as  good  as  you  sent,  but  often  better.  She 
found  her  conversation  with  Irving  an  exceedingly 
yeasty  affair,  its  froth  produced  by  swift  and  violent 
action  cast  up  from  waves  of  native  humor ;  not  —  as 
she  usually  discovered  in  others  —  from  an  inherent 
mediocrity.  Here  was  no  contest  of  who  should  be 
the  first  to  get  to  the  stock  phrases  of  the  day,  or 
who  should  begin  to  revive  the  wan  ghosts  of  once- 
vital  slang.  Their  words  came  swift  and  easy  and 
futile,  like  the  tossing  back  and  forth  of  rubber  balls. 
Jerry  found  her  best  powers  called  into  play,  and,  even 
then,  was  kept  doubtful  as  to  the  issues  of  the  engage- 
ment. Her  interest  in  the  young  man  grew ;  it  warmed 
into  admiration;  it  expanded  into  the  blossoming  hope 
that  she  might  see  more  of  him,  be  with  him  oftener, 
to  whet  her  wits  against  his  flashing  blade. 

[233] 


Something  Else 

We  fear  we  have  given  too  high  an  idea  of  the 
repartee  at  Dr.  Adams's  dinner-table,  to  expose  our 
own  weakness,  by  seeking  to  reproduce  it.  Moreover, 
such  conversation  is  suited  only  to  the  hour  and  cir- 
cumstance. That  sparkle  would  seem  flat  upon  this 
page,  should  Irving,  or  Jerry,  find  it  coldly  served 
forth.  It  might,  at  this  late  day,  cause  a  sigh,  Heaven 
knows  how  deep,  for  the  time  when  one's  young  heart 
felt  no  shadow.  "  Did  I  say  that?  "  Jerry  might  ask, 
looking  with  coolly  critical  eye  at  her  own  warmed-over 
epigram.  "  How  absurd !  "  Or,  "  Did  I  really  laugh 
aloud  just  at  this  point?  But  what  was  I  laughing 
about?"  What,  indeed? 

In  the  meantime,  one  must  not  suppose  that  Winifred 
was  still  upstairs,  painting  away,  in  the  twilight. 
Physically,  she  was  at  her  place,  just  as  if  she  were  all 
there.  But  mentally,  she  was  gone.  The  gay  badi- 
nage of  her  guests  suited  her  admirably,  because  it 
permitted  her  thoughts  to  concentrate  upon  her  picture 
of  Judas  Iscariot.  She  was  deeply  abstracted,  in  seek- 
ing to  visualize  her  conception,  even  to  the  extent  of  a 
little  frown  in  the  broad  forehead.  When  Irving 
should  go,  when  Claude  Vandever  should  come  for  his 
step-sister,  when  in  a  word,  only  she  and  her  grand- 
father had  the  house  to  themselves,  then,  oh,  then, 
how  she  would  fly  to  the  attic  where  her  ideals  were 
wont  to  unfold! 

The  time  at  last  came  for  Irving  to  bear  away 
Agostino  in  cab-seclusion.  He  must  say  good-bye  to 
Jerry,  with  no  surety  of  seeing  her  again,  save  as  youth 

[234] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

itself  gave  bond.  Dr.  Adams  had  opened  the  evening 
paper  and  was  determinedly  reading  it.  He  had  no 
difficulty  in  obtaining  his  own  consent  for  this  rude- 
ness, since  Irving  and  Jerry  saw  only  each  other,  and 
Winifred  was  steeped  in  a  dream  of  colors.  Suddenly 
the  doctor  looked  up  with  — 

"  Who  was  that  rascal  that  threatened  to  dynamite 
Agostino  before  Sunbeam  could  paint  him?  " 

With  difficulty,  Irving  extracted  his  thoughts  from 
the  enmeshing  net  of  Jerry's  raillery.  "  Pasquale," 
he  answered,  seeing  the  doctor  as  from  a  long  way  off, 
as  if  he  had  been  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand. 

"  Hum!  "  Dr.  Adams  grunted.  "  Well !  All  I  have 
to  say  is  —  poor  Pasquale !  " 

Pasquale  was  even  then  in  Purgatory.  Candles  were 
burning  for  his  soul,  in  this  world,  while  his  particular 
saint  was  looking  after  his  interests  in  the  next.  The 
paper  gave  all  essentials  in  eye-gripping  headlines, 
then  narrated  the  main  facts  in  the  leading  paragraph. 

That  morning,  Pasquale  had  been  found  in  his  bed, 
stone  dead,  with  a  stiletto  in  his  back.  It  was 
fortunate  that  his  old  enemy,  one  Agostino,  was  not 
in  the  city,  and  had  not  been  seen  for  ten  days  at  least, 
otherwise,  one  might  have  suspected  Agostino  of  the 
crime.  Every  one  occupying  Pasquale's  floor  of  the 
tenement : —  it  was  a  modern  tenement,  fairly  clean  and 
well-kept  —  was  known  to  be  a  bosom  friend  of  the 
restaurateur,  with  one  exception.  The  exception  was 
a  young  girl,  known  as  Bianca.  Bianca  was  a  peace- 
able and  well-disposed  young  woman,  a  friend  of 

[235] 


Something  Else 

Agostino's,  but  not  at  all  unfriendly  to  Pasquale.  It 
could  n't  have  been  Bianca,  because  there  had  been  a 
struggle;  the  murder  had  evidently  been  committed  by 
a  man.  And,  since  it  was  not  Bianca,  it  seemed  cer- 
tain that  the  criminal  could  not  have  been  an  inmate 
of  the  tenement. 

Having  related  the  principal  facts,  the  newspaper 
repeated  every  one  of  them  in  amplified  form ;  and,  hav- 
ing done  that,  it  went  into  copious  details,  none  of 
which  added  any  light,  and  interjected  several  wood- 
cuts of  the  tenement,  which  lent  an  additional  touch 
of  ink-blurred  mystery.  It  was  clearly  the  work  of 
the  "  Black  Hander,"  and  would  go  at  that. 

Dr.  Adams  touched  the  bell,  and  told  the  butler  to 
bring  Agostino  —  "  Not  in  here,  mind  you,"  added  the 
doctor,  with  a  look  of  pronounced  distaste,  "  but  to 
the  door,  where  Mr.  Payne  will  join  him." 

But,  Williams  explained,  apologetically,  Agostino  was 
gone. 

"Gone?" 

Yes;  he  had  refused  to  wait  to  be  conveyed  hence 
by  Mr.  Payne.  He  had  informed  the  butler  that  he 
no  longer  feared  the  Black  Handers.  "  He  went  right 
out  into  the  street,  bold  and  open,"  Williams  con- 
cluded ;  "  he  said  that  he  had  had  a  dream,  and  it  was 
all  right." 

When  the  butler  vanished,  all  in  the  room  were  think- 
ing the  same  thought,  but  no  one  cared  to  express  it. 
And  so  Agostino  had  had  a  dream?  Well,  Irving  had 
his  dream,  also  —  let  us  hope  of  no  such  desperate 

[236] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

consequences.  With  no  Agostino,  there  was  no  use, 
now,  for  Irving.  Let  him  say  good-bye. 

His  farewells  were  spoken,  not  as  if  he  were  about 
to  set  forth  for  Europe,  but  as  if  on  the  eve  of  de- 
parture to  another  planet.  From  Europe,  one  comes 
back;  but  his  service  to  Art  warranted  no  social  re- 
lationships. To  Winifred  he  was  a  shade  reserved, 
not  because  he  felt  resentment  at  her  past  effort  to 
improve  him,  but  because  she  had  so  soon  relinquished 
the  attempt,  and  above  all,  because  she  had  shown  her- 
self unwilling  to  receive  confidences.  With  little  Jerry 
Vandever,  he  had  a  last  passage  of  arms,  and,  when 
she  struck  a  blow  that  he  might  have  parried,  he  let 
it  fall,  to  show  her  that  his  heart  was  touched. 

Farewells  with  Dr.  Adams  were  of  a  more  practical 
nature.  The  elderly  gentleman  was  as  adamant  in  his 
resolution  to  make  good  all  actual  expenses ;  and  though 
pecuniary  considerations  were  like  a  dash  of  cold  water 
to  the  young  man,  he  was  compelled  to  draw  forth  his 
notebook  —  that  little  volume  of  his  daily  expenses 
which  had  never  suggested  to  his  methodical  mind  the 
expediency  of  laying  by  a  penny.  As  man  to  man, 
Irving  revealed  how  much  Agostino  had  cost  him,  and 
as  man  to  man,  the  doctor  made  good  the  cost.  Thus 
Irving  came  out  even,  as  to  outlay,  with  all  his  ad- 
ventures, and  Jerry  Vandever,  thrown  in. 

That  night,  for  the  first  time,  Irving  took  possession 
of  the  skylight-room  which  Jessie,  on  account  of  her 
trustfulness  in  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  had  been  obliged  to 
relinquish.  As  Irving  climbed  the  stairs  of  Gotham 

[237] 


Something  Else 

Repose,  and  after  them,  the  carpeted  ladder,  there 
came  vividly  to  his  mind,  the  night  when  the  dainty 
feet  and  plump  ankles  of  the  shopgirl  descended  into 
his  world.  The  skylight-room  seemed  to  cry  aloud  of 
Jessie ;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  had  been  bodily  present, 
—  no  doubt  her  thoughts  were  there.  The  air  was 
sweet  with  a  faint  perfume  that  seemed  to  emanate  from 
her  inner  being,  like  a  breath  that  hovers  after  lips 
are  cold.  Everywhere  he  found  reminders  of  her.  On 
the  table  were  odds  and  ends  of  ribbons,  worthless,  yet 
eloquent.  The  bed  was  the  same  that  had  upheld  her 
form  so  round,  so  warm,  apparently  so  eternally  young. 
The  wall-hooks  had  held  suspended  her  garments  pur- 
chased with  so  much  toil,  kept  neat  with  so  great  labor. 
That  skylight,  now  black  and  cheerless,  had  looked 
down  upon  her  day  after  day  and  night  after  night, 
uttering,  alas !  no  knowledge. 

All  the  influences  to  which  Irving  had  been  susceptible 
during  his  Madison  Square  sojourn,  seemed  to  melt 
and  fuse  into  the  environment  of  "  Lee's  Triangle." 
Memories  of  Jerry  and  Jessie  blended.  He  sighed 
pensively.  All  seemed  so  softly  sad,  so  mildly  lonesome  ; 
everything  —  this  life,  you  understand  —  was  so  at 
odds  with  itself,  and  with  oneself!  There  came  the 
startled  thought  that  perhaps  he  had  loved  Jessie,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  had  loved  her,  after  all!  Had  he?  Who 
knows  ? 

Or  perhaps  it  was  Jerry  who  caused  a  weight  to  set- 
tle upon  his  heart.  Or  perhaps  his  blood  ran  faster 
because  his  struggle  of  the  night  before  was  about  to 

[238] 


The  Jerry  Romance 

be  renewed.  Was  it  enough,  this  skylight-room,  with 
all  it  stood  for?  And  even  Jerry  Vandever,  with  her 
splendid  world  of  gay  futility  —  was  that  enough?  To 
be  content  with  less  than  one's  utmost  reach  is  no 
virtue;  is  it  a  vice?  Into  Irving's  sentimental  regrets 
and  indefinite  longings  a  certain  entering  wedge  of  in- 
flexible, self -questioning  was  being  driven  —  not  very 
deep,  because  the  driving  force  came  mainly  from  with- 
out, but  deep  enough  to  awaken  the  old  questions :  Was 
there  not  something  more,  something  better,  something 
else? 


[239] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TRAMPS  AND    KISSES 

WITHOUT  pausing  to  analyze  the  change 
of  moods   experienced  by   Irving  during 
the  next  two  months,  let  us  pass  to  two 
events  in  which  he  took  the  leading  part,  with  the  hope 
that  he  may  express  himself  more  fully  than  could  any 
historian,  however  impartial. 

Of  his  lodging-house  life,  it  is  enough  to  say  that 
Wedging  had  disappeared,  presumably  in  the  direction 
of  Wall  Street;  that  nothing  more  was  heard  of  the 
dignified  and  sadly  conscienceless  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse; 
that  to  Monsieur  and  Madame  du  Pays  was  soon  re- 
stored their  five-dollar  advance;  that  Jessie  faded,  by- 
and-by,  to  the  dim  perspective  of  a  mere  Tiff ;  and  that, 
when  Irving  thought  of  Agostino  as  stealing  to  Pas- 
quale's  bedroom,  stiletto  in  hand,  he  felt  that  he  had  no 
more  to  do  with  the  matter  than  had  the  police. 

But  the  young  man's  interest  in  Dick  Arnold,  so  far 
from  diminishing,  grew  upon  him,  till  he  found  him- 
self giving  much  of  his  thought  to  the  careless  vaga- 
bond. It  finally  led  him  to  seek  out  the  disreputable 
neighborhood  in  which  he  had  found  shelter  from  the 
police  raid,  on  the  night  of  the  gathering  of  the  poor 

[£40] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

at  Rutgers  Square.  Arnold  was  not  at  home,  but  Ir- 
ving left  a  note  on  the  littered  table,  saying  that  he 
would  call,  the  following  night,  at  eight.  The  hour 
named  found  the  railroad  clerk  climbing  the  steep, 
ill-lighted  stairs  of  the  tenement,  and  Arnold  standing 
in  his  open  door. 

The  greetings  of  Arnold  were  boisterous  and  sincere. 
"  Come  right  in !  "  he  exclaimed,  grasping  his  guest's 
hand  and  wringing  it  vigorously.  "  Come  right  in,  and 
don't  be  afraid  I  '11  try  to  sell  you  any  pencils.  I  've 
built  up  a  fire  fit  for  the  king  of  romancers,  and  there 
on  the  table  is  one  of  his  books.  I  've  not  read  a  word 
of  it,  think  of  that!  A  book  by  Dumas,  mind  you, 
altogether  unexplored,  with  very  likely  half  a  dozen 
sequels  to  come,  in  due  order,  so  that  when  you  're 
done,  you  've  only  fairly  begun.  And  here  is  a  friend 
to  cap  the  climax;  a  friend  through  thick  and  thin,  or 
surely  you  'd  never  have  visited  me  in  this  grimy  den, 
eh?  It  is  n't  a  matter  of  business,  I  hope,  eh?  You  've 
not  come  for  any  serious  purpose,  I  trust,  eh?  " 

"  I  have,  though,"  said  Irving ;  but  his  smile  was 
not  alarming.  At  first,  he  was  considerably  disap- 
pointed. The  street  was  more  squalid,  the  tenement 
more  rife  with  evil  smells  and  jangling  noises,  than  he 
had  remembered ;  the  bedroom  of  the  socialist  was  barer 
and  bleaker  than  he  had  cared  to  believe ;  and  Dick 
Arnold  had  lost  much  of  the  advantage  which  remote- 
ness and  a  partial  memory  afforded. 

And  yet,  by  the  time  the  other  had  checked  his  genial 

flow  of  buoyant  speech,  Irving  found  his  mind  return- 

16  [ 


Something  Else 

ing  to  its  former  impressions.  The  little  panting  stove, 
the  scratched  chairs,  the  shabby  bed,  and  the  slovenly 
table,  formed  Arnold's  appropriate  setting;  and  Ar- 
nold himself  became  something  more  than  a  drifting 
wreck;  his  inextinguishable  spark  of  camaraderie 
glowed  from  among  the  ashes  of  a  wasted  career.  To 
the  degree  that  Irving  came  under  the  influence  of 
Arnold's  lazy  content  and  frank  exaltation  of  the 
senses  to  that  degree  rags  and  squalor  faded  to  negligi- 
ble quantities.  One's  heart  may  pass  through  fire  to 
reach  one's  friend ;  but  when  it  can  go  through  an  outer 
crust  of  squalid  rags,  there  must  indeed  be  a  strong 
appellatory  force  in  the  man  behind  those  rags. 

"What!  You  have  a  serious  purpose?  So  much 
the  worse.  I  will  not  listen  to  a  word  you  have  to 
say,"  cried  Arnold,  with  prodigious  resolution,  "  until 
you  give  the  password.  It  is  '  D'Artagnan.'  " 

'  D* Artagnan,9  "  repeated  Irving,  unhesitatingly; 
"  if  he  were  in  a  hundred  books  instead  of  only  six, 
we  could  not  have  enough  of  him." 

"  Bon,  bon!  "  cried  Arnold,  clapping  him  upon  the 
back.  "  So  you,  too,  are  one  of  us  ?  Sit  down. 
Spend  the  rest  of  the  night  with  me,  what  do  you  say? 
Let 's  talk  until  our  throats  grow  husky,  or  read  aloud 
about  my  dear  Chicot  or  Porthos.  Forget  that  you  are 
well-tailored  and  clean,  and  I  swear,  I  '11  never  once  see 
any  difference  between  you  and  me.  And  do  you  like 
a  crappy,  or  black  bass,  most  deliciously  browned?  Or 
an  oyster  stew  that  will  break  your  heart  because  there  's 
not  an  *  r '  in  every  month  of  the  year?  I  know  the 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

place,  and  it 's  open  all  night  long.  Or  if  it 's  music, 
I  '11  have  down  my  fiddle  and  my  bow  —  Uncle  Ned ! 
-. —  and  we  '11  lose  ourselves  in  five  flats ;  or  the 
Traumerei  —  that  suits  me  best,  it 's  my  story  in  slow 
notes.  Do  you  know,  it  always  makes  me  think  of 
that  sad  line  in  '  The  Man  of  the  Iron  Mask  '  where  my 
beloved  D'Artagnan  is  going  along  to  meet  his  fate  — 
you  remember?  His  best  friends  were  dead,  then.  It 
goes  something  like  this :  6  And  then  D'Artagnan  went 
on  alone  —  always  alone.'  You  see?  Like  me.  Only, 
he  had  never  married,  had  n't  D'Artagnan.  So  I  'm 
one  ahead  in  adventures.  Ha !  "  He  shook  his  head. 
"  But  it 's  good  to  see  you  over  there,  my  friend. 
This  is  what  I  call  life." 

"  Don't  call  it  that,"  Irving  remonstrated,  striving 
to  regain  the  purpose  of  his  visit.  "  I  '11  admit  that 
it 's  —  that  it  has  its  compensations.  But  you  were 
meant  for  something  better  than  this,  Mr.  Arnold.  Not 
that  I  fail  to  see  the  atmosphere  from  your  point  of 
view.  But  you  are  only  camping-out,  on  the  edge  of 
existence.  This  is  n't  life,  you  know ;  it 's  only  a  be- 
tween while." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  returned  Arnold,  serenely. 
"  Camping  is  my  avocation.  I  'm  just  a  Gipsy,  and 
mighty  glad  to  have  you  leave  your  life  to  pay  me  a 
visit,  and  share  with  me  my  between-whiles.  I  sup- 
pose you  spend  your  days  in  the  awful  boredom  of 
taking  yourself  seriously  —  and  very  right,  too.  It 
is  n't  given  to  every  man  to  live  in  a  tent,  my  boy." 

"  There  was  a  time,  and  not  long  ago,"  said  Irving, 


Something  Else 

impetuously,    "  when    I    was    a    harmless    sort    of    an 
idiot—" 

"  I  hope,"  said  Arnold,  with  a  grin,  "  that  you  've 
come  into  Solomon's  riches,  along  with  his  wisdom, 
eh?  " 

Irving  laughed. 

"  I  'm  a  Gipsy,"  Arnold  repeated,  "  therefore  a 
fortune-teller.  I  '11  tell  your  fortune.  You  are  a 
brunette,  young  and  unmarried.  Very  good.  You 
have  come  across  a  worthless  castaway,  and,  strangely 
enough,  you  find  yourself  taking  an  interest  in  a  fel- 
low who  talks  Latin,  and  eats  with  his  knife.  You 
want  to  take  away  his  knife,  and  dress  him  decently. 
You  think  he  is  throwing  away  his  opportunities.  You 
are  right  enough.  You  've  come  here  to  tell  me  that 
you've  found  me  a  respectable  job.  Heavens!  A 
job!  Look  you,  my  boy,  why  should  I  labor,  when  I 
can  have  all  I  want  for  nothing?  You  labor ;  what  are 
you  more  than  I?  Clothes?  decent  lodgings?  But 
these  are  no  part  of  you.  They  are  nothing.  It 's 
only  the  soul-part  of  us  that 's  worth  while,  and  souls 
wear  neither  rags  nor  dress-suits.  When  your  soul 
and  mine  appear  at  the  Final  Court  of  Appeals,  side 
by  side,  I  should  like  to  think  —  the  Judge  will  not 
say,  *  Soul,  where  are  thy  patched,  or  thy  carefully- 
creased  trousers?'  No,  no!  He  will  say,  'Behold! 
here  are  two  tramps.  They  did  nothing  for  the  world, 
and  now  we  can  do  nothing  for  them.'  " 

Arnold  said  this  so  whimsically,  and  so  good- 
naturedly,  that  Irving  laughed  louder  than  before, 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

though  somewhat  ruefully.  But  after  the  forced  mirth, 
he  rose  and  said  with  resolution,  "  That  will  not  be  said 
about  my  soul,  Mr.  Arnold ;  and  I  mean  to  see  to  it  that 
yours  also  escape  such  condemnation.  You  're  judging 
me  by  what  I  was.  I  grant  you,  I  'm  nothing  yet," 
he  hastened  to  say ;  "  but  I  'm  beginning  to  look  about. 
You  're  right  in  guessing  that  I  've  found  you  work. 
Look  here!  As  you  say,  I  have  taken  an  interest  in 
you  —  I  can't  get  you  out  of  my  mind.  Come ! 
You  're  not  willing  to  waste  so  much  of  my  thought- 
time,  are  you?  Be  reasonable,  and  get  out  of  my 
brain." 

"  Good !  "  said  Arnold,  laughing  heartily.  "  But 
how?" 

"  You  remember  that  when  your  old  friend  Agostino 
was  hiding  from  the  Black  Handers,  he  stayed  at  my 
foster-parents'  over  in  Jersey?  Well,  while  there,  he 
was  employed  to  do  gardening,  by  the  Little  Neighbor 
—  that 's  what  we  call  her  among  ourselves  —  a  widow, 
who  has  a  greenhouse,  just  across  the  street  from  us." 

"  The  Little  Neighbor  ?  "  Arnold  repeated  thought- 
fully. "That's  a  friendly  sort  of  title.  I  like  it. 
Don't  ever  change  it.  And  in  this  greenhouse,  there  's 
digging  to  be  done,  eh?  And  you  think  I  might  take 
Agostino's  place?  It  sounds  very  interesting  —  all  ex- 
cept the  digging.  That  is  the  part  that  would  never 
suit  me.  You  didn't  propose  my  services,  I  hope?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  I  went  home  last  Sunday,  and  made 
it  a  point  to  drop  in  at  the  greenhouse.  I  told  her 
about  you." 

[245] 


Something  Else 

Arnold  stared  at  Irving  blankly. 
"  I  tried  to  make  her  see  you  as  I  see  you,"  Irving 
continued,  as  the  silence  grew  strained.     "  The  Little 
Neighbor   was    immensely    interested,    and    so    sympa- 
thetic." 

"  You  told  her  my  name  ?  "  stammered  Arnold,  rising 
to  open  the  door.  There  was  no  one  listening  in  the 
hall, —  had  the  suspicion  caused  him  to  make  this  move- 
ment? Perhaps  he  needed  more  air,  for  the  room  was 
not  well  ventilated. 

"  Yes,  I  told  her  your  name,  of  course.     Why  not  ?  " 
"  Did  she  agree  to  let  me  come  to  work  for  her  ?  " 
"  She  did  n't  refuse.     I  know  it  '11  be  all  right." 
"  So  you  know  that?     Oh,  the  knowledge  of  youth 
and  inexperience !     It 's  past  belief.     But  the  fact  is, 
Mr.  Payne, —  I  mean  the  fact  apart  and  aside  from 
the  very  Alps  or  Gibraltar  of  fact  —  that  I  could  never 
dig,  never  —  the  fact  is,  that  I  am  about  to  go  away." 
"From  New  York?"  asked  Irving,  disappointed  at 
the  reception  of  his  plan. 

"  Yes  —  oh,  it 's  possible.  There  really  are  other 
places,  you  know,  even  in  April.  My  time  of  vagrancy 
is  here.  The  road  calls.  'Paddock,'  I  think  Shake- 
speare names  it.  Perhaps  it  is  feline.  No  matter. 
At  any  rate,  I  '11  get,  for  a  season,  from  under  Agos- 
tino's  thumb.  He  's  a  hard  master.  Don't  look  so 
crestfallen,  poor  philanthropist !  Let 's  forget  it,  and 
enjoy  the  night.  Really,  I  shall  come  back,  some  day, 
come  back  alone  — *  always  alone.'  And  yonder  's  the 
spit  of  land  in  Sheepshead  Bay  where  I  want  to  be 

[246] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

buried.  I  passed  some  lazy  summers  there,  lying  prone 
in  the  sun,  burrowing  in  the  sand  with  little  Bianca 
laughing  and  dancing  at  the  edge  of  the  tide.  Oh,  the 
jolly  life  of  the  irresponsible  ge'man  of  the  road! 
What  a  bonanza  I  'd  have  been  to  Monsieur  Doom-iss! 
I  ought  to  have  made  a  series,  don't  you  think?  Book 
First  —  Early  life,  and  marriage,  and  respectability 
—  a  very,  very  thin  volume,  that  should  be,  for  it 
would  necessarily  be  rather  dull;  respectability  always 
is  pretty  heavy,  isn't  it?  And  then  would  come  the 
real  story.  I  'd  rather  he  'd  written  a  part  of  it  than 
lived  it,  myself.  But  —  brisons  la  dessus!  Ah, 
pardon!  My  knowledge  has  suffered  a  leak." 

"  You  are  too  bad ! "  cried  Irving,  vivaciously. 
66  You  would  n't  be  so  disappointing,  if  you  were  n't 
so  promising.  I  tell  you  again,  my  friend  —  for  I  am 
your  friend,  as  you  suggest,  even  through  your  rags  — 
rags  of  which  you  are  not  worthy,  since  they  can't  help 
themselves,  and  you  could.  I  tell  you  again,  I  am  de- 
termined not  to  give  you  up.  Come  and  work  for  the 
Little  Neighbor."  His  tone  grew  persuasive.  "  Live 
in  the  open  air,  Mr.  Arnold;  be  as  free  as  you  like, 
only  —  pay  as  you  go;  don't  beat  your  way  through 
life.  You  will  say  that  I  'm  no  better.  A  few  weeks 
ago,  that  may  have  been  so.  But  I  'm  trying  my  best 
to  find  the  true  vein  in  my  metal ;  I  mean  to  work  it  for 
all  it 's  worth.  Maybe  you  could  help  me." 

The  young  man  was  so  earnest  and  sincere,  and  at 
the  same  time  so  unaffectedly  modest,  that  Arnold  was 
deeply  moved.  For  a  few  moments  he  regarded  in 

[247] 


Something  Else 

silence  the  flushed  face  and  purposeful  eyes  of  his 
guest.  He  cast  aside  his  own  mask  of  easy  indifference. 
It  was  impossible,  of  course,  to  erase  the  lines  of  the 
dissipation  of  years,  and,  now  that  he  had  become  seri- 
ous, the  red  face,  the  heavy  lax  form,  and  the  general 
air  of  self-indulgence,  became  more  pronounced.  He 
seemed,  himself,  to  realize  that  the  character  of  jester 
was  unescapable ;  and,  when  he  presently  made  response, 
his  manner  indicated  that  he  meant  deeply  what  he  said, 
but  could  hardly  expect  it  to  be  received  seriously. 

"  Did  n't  you  understand,  the  other  day,  when  I  told 
you  that  a  certain  deed  had  cut  me  off  from  society? 
If  you  've  forgotten,  recollect.  I  tell  you  plainly,  if 
I  were  such  a  fool  as  to  try  to  regain  my  old  place  in 
the  world,  all  the  world,  on  recognizing  me,  would  cry 
out,  and  the  latter  state  of  that  man  would  be  worse 
than  the  first." 

Irving  interposed :  "  Yes,  I  've  thought  over  what 
you  said  about  that.  But  I  am  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  it 's  a  crime  to  allow  any  one  deed  to  ruin 
a  life.  I  don't  know  what  kind  of  deed  you  com- 
mitted. I  don't  care.  It  was  just  one  deed.  Is  it  to 
prevent  you  from  accomplishing  a  thousand  good 
ones?" 

"  If  I  'm  to  have  any  peace  of  mind,"  Arnold  ex- 
claimed, hastily,  "  I  must  be  engulfed  in  oblivion.  I 
must  look  up  at  life  from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  To  re- 
vert to  your  former  figure,  which  pleases  me,  I  must 
camp  out,  Gipsy-like,  at  the  edge  of  existence.  On  ac- 
count of  old  ties,  or  tangles,  I  'm  too  closely  bound 

[248] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

up  in  the  history  of  other  folk,  to  put  forth  an  inde- 
pendent history  of  my  own.  Should  I  make  any  sort  of 
a  mark  in  the  world,  people  would  ask,  '  Where  does 
he  come  from?  '  Too  many  would  know." 

"  If  you  changed  your  name  — " 

"  All  the  time,  there  'd  be  the  fear  of  discovery,  like 
crumbling  mortar  between  the  bricks  I  should  try  to  set 
in  place.  No.  As  it  is,  I  can  loiter  about  the  home  of 
my  birth,  about  the  house  to  which  I  brought  my  young 
bride,  and  nobody  suspects  —  for  Arnold  is  only  a 
tramp.  And,  to  be  just,  I  am  not  the  original  Arnold. 
I  'm  a  sort  of  ghost,  haunting  the  grave  of  my  departed 
self." 

Then  his  manner  grew  more  cheerful.  He  lighted  his 
pipe,  and  waved  Irving  back  to  his  seat.  "  You 
must  n't  think  I  'm  unhappy.  There  's  nothing  that  so 
makes  for  contentment,  as  drawing  a  circle  about  your- 
self to  exclude  the  unattainable.  Of  course  you 
have  n't  the  artist's  hand  to  do  that,  for  youth  never 
sees  the  line  that  divides  it  from  the  impossible  —  looks 
right  over  it  —  always  feverishly  striving  for  what  is 
not  within  its  reach.  But  I  have  drawn  this  circle  which 
shuts  out  wealth,  fame,  a  home,  and  even  the  companion- 
ship of  such  a  friend  as  you.  Well,  having  drawn  my 
circle,  I  do  not  look  beyond  it,  but  regard  the  possi- 
bilities of  my  small  territory.  I  find  good  books,  un- 
limited travel,  an  excellent  digestion,  and  a  charitable 
world." 

"  Charity !  "  Irving  protested.  "  Is  sustenance  a 
favor,  or  a  right?  " 

[249] 


Something  Else 

"  My  friend,  do  not  begrudge  me  the  kindly  smiles 
that  help  me  along  the  way;  even  if  eyes  look  at  me 
through  tears,  am  I  not  worthy  of  them?  Who  is 
more  to  be  pitied  —  the  man  who  works  and  fails,  or 
the  man  who  does  nothing?  Yes,  a  favor;  I  have  no 
right  to  anything,  even  to  you.  Don't  laugh  at  the 
world  because  it  is  kind  to  the  tramp  —  neither  is  hurt 
by  the  kindness.  You  'd  help  a  fellow  across  the  street, 
if  you  found  him  hobbling  on  crutches.  And  a  tramp 
is  a  cripple  in  heart  or  mind  —  only  his  body  is  sound." 

Irving  felt  the  subtle  appeal  for  sympathy,  and  al- 
lowed himself  to  come  completely  under  the  domination 
of  the  other's  influence.  The  memory  of  that  night 
lingered  with  him  throughout  life ;  it  was  so  different 
from  any  other  experience,  and  its  sensations  were  so 
completely  made  up  of  inexplicable  sentiment.  He  had 
not  intended  to  remain  long,  yet  when  once  he  had  ac- 
cepted Arnold's  point  of  view,  he  desired  to  linger. 
There  was  something  about  the  tramp  that  had  always 
appealed  to  him  as  intensely  human  and  adventurously 
fascinating.  Arnold,  in  himself,  seemed  one  huge  ad- 
venture. As  they  took  turns  about  at  the  book,  one 
reading  a  chapter,  then  the  other,  it  seemed  that  these 
two,  and  not  the  mere  fictitious  characters,  were  swag- 
gering up  to  Paris  inns,  engaging  in  duels  in  the  first 
chapter  and  swearing  eternal  friendship  in  the  next. 

Irving,  agreeably  to  his  taste  for  rechristening  peo- 
ple and  places,  substituted  his  name  and  Arnold's,  for 
the  principal  heroes,  taking  care  to  Gallicize  them  that 
they  might  not  discredit  their  setting.  Thus  he  was 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

"  Irvilonne  Paynos,"  while  the  elder  was  "  Ricardo 
Arnois."  Some  confusion  resulted,  for  when  it  came 
Arnold's  turn  to  read,  he  invariably  called  the  star  actor 
by  his  own  name.  When  Irving  concluded  his  chapter, 
"  Irvilonne  Paynos  "  might  be  on  the  eve  of  unhorsing 
66  Arnois  " ;  but  when  Arnold  came  to  the  book,  it  was 
"  Paynos  "  who  rolled  in  the  dust.  If  this  damaged 
the  fabric  of  the  plot,  it  produced,  on  the  other  hand, 
so  much  hilarity  that  when,  at  last,  the  two  fared  forth 
for  the  fish-restaurant,  they  were  sore  from  much 
laughter. 

Even  during  their  discussion  of  delectably  fried  bass, 
recurring  shreds  of  memory  would,  as  it  were,  tickle 
their  nostrils,  causing  sudden  outbursts,  closely  akin 
to  sneezes.  Blandly  insensible  to  the  immense  amount 
of  attention  they  attracted,  they  at  last  rose,  fresh  for 
a  renewal  of  the  bout. 

Arnold  had  scarcely  tasted  his  wine  —  had  he  been 
alone  — "  but  I  drank  so  much  in  the  book,"  he  de- 
clared, "  that  I  can  hardly  walk  a  straight  line." 
Then,  when  they  regained  the  street,  he  said,  with  a 
touch  of  sentiment,  "  The  fact  is,  '  Irvilonne,'  you  act 
just  like  champagne  on  my  system." 

They  returned  to  the  tenement,  and  again  Irving 
wondered  to  find  all  so  dark,  so  noisome,  so  unclean. 
And  again,  it  was  not  long  before  all  things  were  trans- 
formed by  the  magic  touch  of  a  genial  personality. 
There  was  more  of  "  Arnois  "  and  "  Irvilonne  " ;  there 
was  more,  much  more,  talking  beside  the  little  stove. 
Arnold  had  down  his  violin,  and  might  have  grown 

[251] 


Something  Else 

melancholy,  had  not  a  petition  to  desist  come  from 
across  the  airshaft,  in  the  shape  of  a  boot,  whose  iron 
heel  left  its  round-robin  on  the  door  panel. 

At  parting,  in  the  gray  dawn,  Arnold  explained  that 
he  was  going  away  that  very  day ;  and  when  Irving  ex- 
claimed that  he  was  sorry  to  have  him  vanish  out  of 
his  life,  the  tramp  said  laughingly,  "  Oh,  I  may  see  you 
again."  Then  he  added,  "  Are  you  on  your  way  to 
the  studio?" 

"  Yes,  I  'm  supposed  to  be  sleeping  there,  to-night. 
Why  not  come  that  far  with  me  ?  It  is  n't  late.  And 
you  know  the  way  —  you  've  been  there  before." 

Arnold  made  a  grimace.  "  Yes,  I  went  there  to 
save  Agostino's  life.  I  would  n't  go  back  for  anything 
less  pressing.  It  's  an  awful  distance.  It  carries  me 
so  far  back  into  the  past,  that  I  almost  lose  myself." 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  Burl,  in  your  past  life  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  'd  promise  me  one  thing,"  said  Arnold, 
with  sudden  earnestness :  "  Never  mention  my  name  to 
him.  Yes,  I  knew  Mr.  Burl,  once  upon  a  time.  He 
didn't  recognize  me,  the  night  Pasquale  went  there  to 
hunt  Agostino.  I  should  think  not !  If  I  'd  told  him 
who  I  was,  he  would  hardly  have  believed  it.  People 
change  so.  0  temporal  0  mores!  Good-night.  Give 
me  your  hand  again.  Don't  forget  '  Arnois.'  And 
some  day  you  may  look  for  him." 

The  effect  of  this  visit  upon  Irving  seemed  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  cause.  While  eating  his  herring  and 
dried  halibut,  while  boiling  his  cocoa,  and  washing  his 
tins  behind  the  studio-screen,  it  seemed  inevitable  that 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

he  should  always  be  comparing  his  life  with  that  of  the 
tramp.  If  Jerry  Vandever  could  have  seen  him  thus ! 
At  night,  in  his  skylight-room,  he  washed  his  handker- 
chiefs —  to  enter  no  farther  into  particulars  —  where 
Jessie  Tiff  had  washed  hers,  that  he  might  make  weekly 
payments  to  Mr.  Burl  on  that  debt  contracted  for  one 
night  of  pleasure.  Had  Jerry  seen  that ! 

And  it  seemed  no  longer  worth  while.  Truly,  he  was 
not  the  care-free  gentleman  he  had  been,  in  the  ante- 
Jerry  days.  But  was  it  because  of  Jerry?  Some- 
times he  wondered  if  the  impressions  Jerry  had  pro- 
duced would  not  be  weakened  by  a  second  interview, 
if  he  would  not  find  her  less  fascinating  at  short  range, 
if  he  had  not  magnified  her  charms,  attributing  to  her 
certain  qualities  in  himself.  And  then,  sometimes,  even 
at  the  office,  he  would  find  himself  smiling  at  some  Jerry- 
recollection,  a  look,  a  word, —  smiling,  it  might  be,  under 
the  very  eye  of  the  cold-blooded  chief-clerk;  and  with 
the  smile  might  come  a  sudden  realization  of  himself. 
He  did  not  wish  Jerry  on  a  lower  plane.  He  was  not 
sure  that  he  wished  Jerry  at  all;  but  he  desired  to  be 
lifted  to  her  side,  within  reach,  at  any  rate.  No  circle 
circumscribed  this  young  man's  longings.  And  with  his 
longings,  his  resolution  grew. 

In  the  meantime,  you  would  have  thought  that  he 
did  n't  know  there  was  a  Central  Park.  He  cared  for 
life,  not  topography.  A  place  was  interesting  to  him, 
only  as  a  place  in  which  to  live.  Fifth  Avenue  called  in- 
sistently. He  heard,  but  could  not  go.  But  there 
flowered  within  him  that  tenacious  resolution  to  go  up 

[253] 


Something  Else 

some  day  to  possess  the  land.  This  defmiteness  of  pur- 
pose had  already  changed  the  tenor  of  his  life.  It  even 
gave  him  a  new  look.  But  he  was  still  working  for 
twenty  a  week.  One  may  have  new  looks  on  a  small 
salary.  Occasionally  Irving  strolled  to  the  Washing- 
ton Arch,  and  stared  —  one  might  have  thought,  threat- 
eningly—  stared  up  the  beginning  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
One  day  his  would  be  the  right  to  tread  that  prosperous 
thoroughfare,  not  as  a  visitor,  but  as  a  denizen.  In 
the  meantime,  he  halted  at  the  Washington  Arch,  biding 
his  time,  conserving  his  forces,  a  la  Valley  Forge. 

The  next  incident  worthy  of  record,  after  Irving's 
parting  with  Dick  Arnold,  was  that  of  the  mysterious 
kiss.  We  need  make  little  of  the  young  man's  inde- 
fatigable efforts  to  land  a  better  job  than  the  one  he 
held  in  the  Broadway  railroad  office,  since  his  intrigu- 
ing with  men  in  power,  and  friends  out  of  power,  came 
to  nothing.  That  he  was  persistently  looking  about  for 
work  in  some  field  that  promised  promotion,  is  men- 
tioned to  indicate  that  his  ambitions  were  not  inert 
wishes.  The  mysterious  kiss  was  in  no  way  connected 
with  his  resolution  to  get  on  in  the  world.  Kisses  sel- 
dom are ;  yet  they  seem  none  the  less  interesting  because 
of  that. 

The  event  could  never  have  taken  place,  but  for  Ir- 
ving's overworked  condition.  He  came  to  the  studio,  one 
noon,  completely  fagged  out.  The  very  brightest  of  his 
hopes  of  advancement  had  been  destroyed  by  the  promo- 
tion of  an  inexperienced  kinsman  of  the  general  manager. 
Irving's  disappointment  was  keen.  He  did  not  want  to 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

blunt  the. edge  of  it  by  making  a  pretence  that  anything 
was  as  usual.  He  had  no  appetite,  and  would  not  light 
his  oilstove.  It  seemed  that  everything  ought  to  stop 
a  while,  before  a  renewal  of  the  daily  routine.  He 
threw  himself  into  an  armchair,  glad  to  find  Mr.  Burl 
away.  Talking  would  be  unnecessary;  everything  was 
unnecessary,  even  thinking.  He  suffered  his  mind  to  lie 
prone,  unresisting  and  oppressed,  beneath  the  burden  of 
the  great  failure.  In  a  short  time,  he  was  sleeping 
heavily. 

How  long  he  slept  before  the  too  comfortable  fire, 
could  not  be  known.  He  was  awakened  in  the  strangest 
manner.  Somebody's  lips  were  pressed  upon  his,  not 
violently,  but  softly,  lingeringly,  with  a  communicated 
sense  of  tenderness.  His  first  fancy  was  that  he  lin- 
gered in  Dreamland,  while  a  dream  Jerry  bent  over  his 
chair.  If  he  were  dreaming,  what  could  be  gained  by 
opening  his  eyes?  He  waited  for  another  dream-kiss, 
but  it  did  not  come.  There  was  a  rustling  sound  near 
him,  as  of  skirts  and  footsteps  withdrawing. 

The  sounds  were  so  realistic  that  it  came  to  him,  with 
startling  conviction,  that  real  lips  had  kissed  him;  and 
that  the  faint,  indefinable  perfume,  that  seemed  to  lin- 
ger in  his  hair  as  if  from  another's  contact,  was  a  sig- 
nificant reality;  and  yet  that  the  face  he  had  imagined 
bending  over  him,  with  its  white  flashes  shading  away 
to  softest  rose,  was  not  Jerry,  but  only  his  thought  of 
her. 

That  thought  of  Jerry  was  now  dismissed,  not  only 
as  unlikely,  but  as  inadequate.  He  was  conscious  of  a 

[255] 


Something  Else 

wonderful,  ill-defined  emotion,  as  inexplicable  as  it  was 
profound,  such  as  no  kiss  of  Jerry,  whether  in  dream  or 
waking-hour,  could  have  produced.  Confused  and 
thrilled,  it  seemed  that  for  a  moment  he  durst  not  open 
his  eyes.  The  lips  that  had  pressed  his  own,  had  seemed 
to  plead  for  secrecy. 

When  he  was  wide-awake,  he  discovered  Winifred  Ad- 
ams standing  not  far  from  the  blue-and-gold  vase  where 
he  had  first  seen  her.  Her  gaze  was  intent  upon  him. 
He  stared  back,  catching  his  breath,  with  the  involuntary 
thought,  "Could  it  have  been  she?"  The  inevitable 
suspicion  brought  a  ruddy  glow  to  his  cheeks.  She  saw 
the  tell-tale  color,  and  answered  with  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible blush. 

Her  brown  eyes  did  not  falter.  The  young  man 
hastily  rejected  his  first  thought.  It  was  easier  to  think 
that  Jerry  had  kissed  him  in  a  dream  than  that  Winifred 
had  in  reality.  However,  a  kiss  from  Winifred  was  un- 
thinkable. But  in  the  meantime,  every  instant  of  si- 
lence made  matters  worse.  The  young  man  gave  his 
short  laugh,  now  much  confused. 

«  How  would  I  do,"  he  asked,  "  for  «  The  Sleeping 
Sentinel'?"  He  rose. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Winifred,  "  for  in  that  case,  I  must 
be  the  enemy,  and  really,  this  is  n't  an  ambuscade."  Her 
voice  had  the  old  freshness,  the  old  naturalness,  the  old 
revivifying  influence.  It  caused  him  to  breathe  deeper. 
She  continued,  with  admirable  calm :  "  Grandfather 
brought  me  here  this  morning  for  my  farewell  visit  to 
Uncle  Christopher.  I  'm  spending  the  day.  I  insisted 

[256] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

that  I  would  n't  be  lonesome,  if  they  went  to  see  about 
my  cabin  for  the  voyage.  I  think  it  will  be  several  hours 
before  they  return."  Then  she  added,  as  if  giving  a 
needful  explanation,  "  Uncle  Christopher  said  you 
would  n't  come  here  to-day." 

"  He  said  that?  "  Irving  exclaimed,  feeling  unreason- 
ably aggrieved.  "  I  don't  know  why  he  should  have 
thought  so;  I  haven't  missed  a  day  for  the  past  two 
months."  (To  himself:  "No,  it  couldn't  have  been 
Winifred,  it  could  n't  have  been.  Besides,  why  should 
she?  I  am  nothing  in  the  world  to  her.  And  even  if  I 
were — ")  Irving's  face  was  again  red. 

Winifred  was  almost  alarmingly  cool  and  contained, 
as  she  responded  with,  "  He  did  n't  tell  me  why ;  but  he 
said  very  positively,  that  he  knew,  he  knew  you  would 
not  come  to  the  studio  to-day." 

Irving  looked  at  her  blankly.  He  felt  a  desire  to  take 
Mr.  Burl  by  his  goatee.  "  Anyway,"  he  declared,  "  I 
am  here."  ("It  was  somebody  else,  for  kissed  I  was, 
and  that  I  can  swear !  ")  "  And  so  you  are  all  alone?  " 

"  They  will  come  back  by  the  time  I  've  painted  Uncle 
Christopher  a  little  remembrance,"  Winifred  said.  If 
she  had  purposely  avoided  a  direct  answer,  her  man- 
ner did  not  betray  caution. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  think  me  rude,  Miss  Adams. 
The  fact  is,  I  woke  up  from  such  an  extraordinary 
dream  —  do  you  believe  in  dreams  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  only  as  dreams.  You  did  n't  know  I  am 
going  voyaging,  did  you?  "  she  asked  with  a  friendly 
little  smile  that  seemed  to  accept  him  as  a  friend  of  the 
'7  [  257  ] 


Something  Else 

family.  "  To-morrow  I  sail  for  Italy,  to  be  gone  six 
months."  She  looked  at  him  with  her  smiling  clear 
eyes,  as  if  to  show  that  there  were  no  shadows  on  the 
hilltops. 

He  was  sensible  of  a  poignant  regret.  It  seemed 
such  a  pity  that  Winifred  should  leave  New  York.  The 
city  would  be  so  empty !  (To  himself:  "  It  is  very  cer- 
tain that  whoever  kissed  me,  she  did  it  before  Winifred 
came  into  the  room.  I  can't  ask  her,  *  Do  you  know 
I  have  been  kissed?'  Besides,  there's  something  of 
mystery  in  all  this,  much  deeper  and  stranger  than  the 
question  of  mere  identity.")  To  Winifred:  "I  am  so 
sorry  that  you  are  going  away,  Miss  Adams."  His 
manner  was  impetuous,  heart-felt.  "  I  am  so  sorry." 

Into  Winifred's  cheeks  came  again  the  slight  color 
his  first  blush  had  evoked.  But  her  voice  was  cool,  oh, 
so  much  too  cool !  "  I  am  surprised  to  hear  that." 

"  You  have  a  right  to  be  surprised,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing rapidly.  "  You  and  Dr.  Adams  were  both  very 
kind  and  cordial  in  asking  me  to  come  back,  after  that 
little  adventure  with  Agostino.  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
never  came.  It 's  because  I  was  waiting  to  bring  you  a 
bit  of  work  partly  of  your  own  hands.  What  do  you 
think  I  mean  by  that  ?  I  mean  a  different  —  a  changed 
Irving  Payne.  Do  you  remember  our  conversation  on 
that  trip  to  Jersey?  And  are  you  sorry  to  share  in 
the  partnership?  " 

"  Grandfather  thought  me  dreadfully  dogmatic," 
Winifred  murmured. 

"  I  thought  so  myself,"  said  Irving,  snatching  at  his 
[258] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

watch,  and  dismayed  to  find  that  it  was  almost  time  to 
go  to  work.  "  At  any  rate,  you  showed  me  myself  in  a 
sadly  uncomplimentary  light  — "  he  smiled  a  little  rue- 
fully — "  but,  as  it  happened,  and  as  I  knew  at  the  time, 
it  was  the  true  light." 

"Oh!"  said  Winifred  remorsefully,  "but—"  But 
what  more  could  she  say?  Of  course  it  was  the  true 
light.  It  was  Irving's  acceptance  of  the  fact,  that 
touched  her. 

"  So  I  determined,"  he  went  on,  almost  breathlessly, 
"  not  that  very  hour,  of  course ;  not  that  night,  though 
I  walked  the  streets  till  morning,  thinking  it  over.  But, 
in  the  course  of  time,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be  one  of 
the  world's  builders.  That 's  my  determination  to-day. 
I  have  the  strength  and  skill.  I  have  n't  found  the 
lumber,  or  the  nails  yet,  but  I  'm  hunting.  What  I 
meant  to  do,  as  soon  as  I  'd  found  them,  was  to  come  to 
you,  and  say,  *  Watch  me  —  I  'm  going  to  build ! '  " 
He  gave  his  whimsical  laugh  which,  nevertheless,  was 
very  much  in  earnest. 

Winifred  laughed  too,  and  her  laugh  was  a  happy 
one.  She  was  very  glad.  "  The  materials  are  n't  of 
so  much  consequence,"  she  declared.  "  The  resolu- 
tion 's  the  main  thing." 

Irving  cried  out,  with  a  nod,  "  I  've  got  it !  " 

Winifred  impulsively  extended  her  hand.  She 
thought  him  splendid.  They  were  sitting  by  the  fire, 
in  the  chairs  of  Mr.  Burl  and  Dr.  Adams ;  they  faced 
each  other;  Irving  held  his  open  watch  upon  his  knee, 
racing  against  time.  At  one  moment  she  was  telling 

[259] 


Something  Else 

of  her  labors  and  plans,  as  to  a  confrere  —  what  she 
was  to  do  in  Italy,  what  she  hoped  to  accomplish  on  her 
return,  and  how  sorry  she  was  to  leave  her  grandfather. 
"  You  must  go  to  see  him !  " 

The  next  minute  Irving  was  telling  her  about  his 
traps  to  catch  jobs  —  how  he  had  all  his  acquaintances 
looking  out  for  him,  and  how  they  always  seized  upon 
the  game  in  the  traps  for  their  own  purposes,  and  what 
he  meant  to  do  when  he  caught  a  plump  hare  of  his  own. 
He  questioned  her  about  her  pictures ;  she,  him,  about 
his  routine.  She  sketched  one  of  her  ambitions  upon 
the  air,  and  it  took  color  in  his  faith  in  her.  As  for 
him,  his  ambition  was  to  have  a  part  in  the  stupendous 
advancement  of  the  metropolis.  In  some  way,  he  would 
like  to  help  to  tunnel  the  island  with  subways,  to  span 
the  rivers  with  bridges,  to  touch  the  parks  with  new 
beauty,  to  cause  gigantic  buildings  to  tower  above  the 
earth  for  the  housing  of  vast  enterprises.  In  the  mean- 
time, one  earns  but  twenty  dollars  a  week. 

"  I  am  preposterous,  of  course,"  said  Irving,  laugh- 
ing, "  but  a  person  is  no  longer  visionary  after  he  has 
succeeded.  All  that  I  hope  for  now  will  seem  reasonable 
enough  after  1 5ve  done  it."  In  spite  of  his  laugh  his 
eyes  burned. 

"  You  must  remember,"  cried  Winifred,  "  that  I  be- 
lieved it  before  you  did  it."  And  her  eyes  burned  also. 

He  tried  to  explain  the  change  that  had  come  over 
him,  a  change  that  was  growing  more  definite  every  day. 
"  I  look  just  the  same  to  everybody,"  said  Irving,  "  ex- 
cept to  myself.  Sometimes  I  stare  into  the  glass,  and 

[260] 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

think,  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  Not  that  my  features  are  al- 
tered, but  my  ideas  are  so  revolutionized.  I  think  the 
greatest  difference  is  in  the  way  I  regard  my  work  at 
the  office.  Once  —  it  was  before  I  knew  you,  Miss 
Adams  —  it  seemed  to  me,  that  all  that  work  was  good 
for,  was  to  provide  the  means  for  having  a  good  time.  In 
that  light,  work  was  a  necessary  evil.  It  was  no  part  of 
real  life,  it  was  a  sort  of  suspended  animation.  Now  I 
feel  differently  about  it.  I  want  to  help  the  world  a 
notch  higher,  and  nothing  but  work  will  do  it.  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you  how  different  that  idea  has  made 
everything !  I  know  the  fellows  at  the  office  would  think 
me  crazy.  But  I  do  my  work,  enjoying  the  thought  that 
it  5s  definitely  helping  the  world.  If  I  ask  for  greater 
work,  it  is  n't  so  much  on  account  of  increased  salary  — 
though  I  'm  still  human  —  as  because  I  shall  be  able  to 
help  things  along  more.  I  want  to  be  a  factor  in  the 
improvement  of  Greater  New  York,  but  even  that 
does  n't  seem  to  bound  my  desires  —  I  want  to  help  to 
build  up  my  country,  to  make  travel,  and  labor,  and  cul- 
ture, easier  to  others.  But  even  that  is  n't  the  worst 
about  me :  I  want  to  have  a  finger  in  the  world's  prog- 
ress !  Perhaps  I  '11  keep  right  on  till  I  visit  Mars,  in 
some  sort  of  an  aeroplane  Santa  Maria!  "  He  jumped 
up,  laughing.  "  Time  's  up !  "  he  declared. 

They  clasped  hands  in  a  way  not  easily  to  be  for- 
gotten. It  was  as  if  they  had  never  known  each  other 
until  then.  Yes,  she  was  glad  to  share  in  his  partner- 
ship! So  delightful  and  so  absorbing  did  Irving  find 
those  few  minutes'  confidences,  exchanged  with  almost 


Something  Else 

lightning  rapidity,  that  he  reached  the  street  before  he 
again  remembered  the  mysterious  kiss.  Could  anything 
more  conclusively  have  proved  the  potent  spell  of  Wini- 
fred Adams?  Perhaps  in  all  his  history,  that  kiss  had 
been  the  most  amazing  experience;  yet  Winifred  had 
driven  it  from  his  mind. 

His  realization  of  this  fact  checked  his  steps  involun- 
tarily. He  was  almost  at  the  head  of  the  street,  but  he 
could  not  forbear  looking  back  at  the  rambling  frame 
house  which  more  than  ever  resembled  an  old  freight  car, 
sidetracked  from  the  main  line  of  business,  the  brick  en- 
gine in  front,  the  shop-flatcars  in  the  rear.  What  a 
dingy,  obscure  building  to  have  roofed  over  so  many 
glowing  hopes  and  purposes ! 

As  Irving  looked  back,  not  standing  entirely  still,  lest 
he  never  catch  up  with  his  press  of  work,  he  received  a 
shock.  At  one  of  the  windows  of  the  studio,  appeared 
a  face,  pale  and  indistinct.  It  vanished  before  he  could 
define  its  features ;  but  he  had  had  time  to  discover  that 
the  face  was  not  Winifred's.  This,  however,  was  not 
the  only  cause  of  his  startled  surprise,  since  he  had  al- 
ready convinced  himself  that  the  kiss  had  been  bestowed 
by  some  stranger.  In  the  window-sill,  directly  below 
the  pane  that  revealed  the  unknown's  watching  face,  Ir- 
ving perceived  the  bicycle-lamp.  It  had  been  placed 
there  to  prevent  his  visit,  and  that  is  why  Mr.  Burl  had 
told  Winifred,  with  perfect  assurance,  that  Irving  would 
not  come  to  the  studio. 

Surprising  as  Irving  found  all  this,  there  was  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost  in  returning  to  Broadway.  He  re- 


Tramps  and  Kisses 

sumed  his  course  with  all  speed.  But  though  he  shared 
the  nervous  haste  of  those  habitues  of  the  city  streets 
who  seem  ever  behind-time,  his  thoughts  raced  still  more 
madly  ahead.  The  Somebody  whom  Mr.  Burl  did  not 
want  him  to  meet  was  a  woman ;  evidently  she  must  be  a 
friend,  not  only  of  the  artist  but  of  Winifred  and, 
most  probably,  of  Winifred's  grandfather.  And  this 
mysterious  Somebody,  this  woman  who  had  entered  Mr. 
Burl's  life  within  the  last  year,  had  kissed  Irving  while 
he  slept!  More  than  that,  she  had  risked  discovery  in 
bestowing  that  salute,  when  evidently  she  did  not  desire 
to  be  discovered ;  and  her  lingering  lips  had  betrayed  an 
affection  more  unaccountable  than  the  kiss  itself. 


[263] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   GATHERING   OF   THE   RICH 

A  WEEK  elapsed  before  Irving's  return  to  the 
studio.  He  would  have  gone  back  the  day 
after  his  meeting  with  Winifred,  to  excuse 
himself  for  having  overlooked  the  lamp-signal,  had  not 
the  lamp  itself  warned  him  away.  He  took  for  granted 
that  Winifred  would  speak  of  his  visit;  but  when  he 
found  himself  once  more  established  in  his  old  place, 
no  reference  was  made  to  his  indiscretion. 

Concerning  the  mysterious  kiss,  he  concluded  that 
Mr.  Burl's  strange  visitor  —  possibly  a  relative  who 
had  forfeited  her  position  in  society  —  had  found  him 
asleep  in  the  studio;  had  been  reminded  of  some  dear 
one,  either  dead  or  lost  to  her  —  a  son  or  a  brother  — 
and  had  given  way  to  a  momentary  impulse.  Winifred, 
who  must  have  known  of  the  woman's  presence  in  the 
house,  might  not  have  known  of  the  stolen  kiss ;  at  any 
rate,  he  had  shown  by  his  manner  that  he  did  not  sus- 
pect Winifred  of  having  bestowed  it. 

Irving  little  imagined  how  deeply  Winifred  had  ap- 
preciated his  chivalrous  conduct  on  that  occasion,  or 
what  admirable  tact  and  delicate  consideration  she  had 
discovered  in  his  unconscious  bearing.  Ignorant 
though  he  was  of  the  impression  his  inherent  fineness  of 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

nature  had  produced,  he,  nevertheless,  realized  that,  in 
the  few  minutes  of  their  interchanged  confidences,  they 
had  come  very  close  together.  For  weeks  after  her  de- 
parture for  Italy,  he  enjoyed  the  recollection  of  their 
hurried  words,  which  had  leapt,  like  fire,  over  dry  bar- 
riers of  conventionality,  springing  higher  and  higher 
from  the  fuel  of  heart-longings.  Had  so  much  ever 
before  been  said  in  so  short  a  time?  These  two  had  felt 
themselves  to  be  meeting  for  the  first  time,  possibly  to 
part  forever.  Each  had  looked,  each  had  spoken,  as  if 
all  depended  upon  complete  self-revelation.  Why? 
That  was  a  curious  question  for  consideration. 

Clear  cut  as  was  his  impression  of  Winifred,  it  was 
destined  to  lose  much  of  its  outline  during  the  events 
that  clustered  about  the  international  races  at  Briar- 
cliff.  It  is  doubtful  if  Irving  would  have  thought  of 
going  to  the  races,  but  for  his  chance  meeting  with 
Jerry  Vandever.  She  was  with  her  step-brother  when 
Irving  encountered  them  in  the  foyer  of  an  opera  house, 
on  upper  Broadway.  It  was  a  gay  meeting;  all  was 
hurry  and  brilliancy  and  kaleidoscopic  transition.  Life 
was  marked  in  staccato  notes. 

Claude  was  surprised  that  Jerry  and  Irving  should 
be  acquainted.  Jerry  pretended  indignation  that 
Claude  should  never  have  told  her  of  his  adventurous 
New  Year's  Eve.  Claude  was  tall  and  handsome  and 
distinguished.  Irving  looked  like  him,  as  usual.  Jerry 
was  so  swiftly  changing,  so  piquantly  engaging,  so 
brightly  flashing,  that  one's  eyes  ached,  almost;  one's 
heart,  quite. 

[265] 


Something  Else 

"  1 5ve  often  wondered  what  became  of  you,  after  the 
mob,"  Claude  declared.  "  The  last  I  saw  of  you, 
Knickerbocker,  you  were  defending  a  prostrate  female 
—  to  revert  to  old  style  —  against  an  hundred  foes." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  warranted,"  Irving  assured  him.  "  But 
you  don't  ask  about  Miss  Tiff." 

Claude's  face  fell.  "Do  you  know,  'Bocker,"  he 
murmured,  heedless  of  his  step-sister's  "  Miss  Tiff? 
Oh,  what  a  name !  " — "  Do  you  know,  Jessie  proved  a 
sad  disappointment.  Perhaps  it  was  n't  her  fault, 
though  really  I  don't  know  but  it 's  a  crime  for  a  young 
lady  to  begin  at  a  higher  pitch  than  she  can  sustain." 
The  crowd  began  to  bear  them  apart.  Jerry  asked : 
"  Are  you  going  to  Briarcliff  ?  I  am.  Do  come  — 
you  can  tell  me  all  about  you  dreadful  protege,  Agos- 
tino."  As  the  chasm  widened,  she  called,  "  I  '11  be 
there.  See  if  you  can  find  me !  " 

Irving  accepted  the  challenge.  "  I  '11  find  you,"  he 
called,  delightedly. 

When,  in  his  sky-scraper,  he  asked  if  he  might  have 
Friday  off  —  Friday  was  the  great  day.  "  No,"  said 
the  chief-clerk,  unemotionally,  irrevocably.  Irving 
suggested  that  he  could  supply  a  substitute. 

"  We  '11  find  a  substitute  for  you,  whenever  it 's  nec- 
essary," said  the  chief-clerk,  closing  the  interview. 

Irving  did  not  relinquish  his  purpose  of  going  to 
Briarcliff,  but  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  return 
in  time  to  go  to  work.  He  was  as  familiar  with  the 
automobile  races,  thanks  to  the  papers,  as  one  can  be 
with  any  event  that  has  not  yet  taken  place.  He  knew 

[266] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

that  the  night  previous  to  the  races  would,  if  the 
weather  should  prove  favorable,  be  crowded  to  the 
brim  with  romantic  possibilities.  All  the  world  was 
going  up  to  Briarcliff  in  the  night-time,  to  be  ready  for 
the  dawn's  excitement.  It  was  not  unlikely  that  he  might 
find  Jerry  with  her  party;  certainly  he  would  search, 
with  the  probability  of  finding  happy  adventures. 

In  meditating  upon  these  latent  probabilities,  Irving 
felt  the  stirring  of  his  old  self.  In  his  impatience  for 
the  day,  or  rather  night,  of  pleasure,  he  lost  much  of 
that  zest  for  his  daily  work  of  which  he  had  rather 
boasted  to  Winifred.  It  had  become  once  more  the 
daily  grind;  while,  in  his  anticipations  of  finding  little 
Jerry,  Winifred  was  quite  forgotten.  It  seemed  that 
the  old  days  had  come  again,  days  like  those  of  New 
Year's  Eve,  when  he  was  ready  to  squander  his  last 
penny  —  and  the  last  penny  of  anybody  else  —  for  a 
brief  episode  of  gay  life.  Yet,  in  reality,  it  was  dif- 
ferent. In  the  old  days  he  had  looked  upon  such 
golden  moments  of  prodigality  as  the  end  of  the  month's 
work,  the  goal  to  which  labor  tended.  Now  they 
seemed  but  wayside  inns,  where  one  might  rest  before 
going  on  to  greater  achievements. 

It  was  shortly  after  one  in  the  morning,  when  Irving 
stepped  off  the  ferryboat  at  Tarrytown,  and  set  forth 
to  walk  to  East  View,  the  toe  in  the  bulgy-stocking 
outline  of  the  Briarcliff  course.  It  was  a  warm  April 
night.  The  moon  had  not  risen,  but  nowhere  was 
darkness.  The  intense  glare  of  countless  automobile- 
lamps  cut  a  network  of  blinding  white  against  the 

[267] 


Something  Else 

shrubbery.  Incessant  blasts  from  raucous  horns  came 
as  calls  to  adventurous  combat.  As  the  young  man 
turned  to  the  right,  at  Main  Street,  and  followed  the 
trolley  tracks  to  the  summit  of  the  hill,  he  found  him- 
self in  the  midst  of  a  scene  of  varied  movement.  All  the 
countryside  was  awake.  As  he  went  down  the  hill  and 
followed  the  lakeshore,  streaming  bands  of  diverging 
radiance  bathed  his  face  and  form.  The  water  spar- 
kled from  electric  splendor.  Beyond  the  Hudson,  a 
faint  glow  told  of  an  approaching  moon. 

Irving  found  himself  a  part  of  the  hurried  proces- 
sion, a  part  in  the  gay  tournament.  He  was  glad  that 
others  could  ride,  and  that  he  could  walk ;  he  envied  no 
one,  but  used  men  and  women  of  every  degree  as  spice 
to  his  zest.  The  prouder  their  bearing,  the  more  he 
felt  himself  in  the  company  of  princes. 

And  what  a  company!  Even  before  midnight  thou- 
sands of  electric  cars  had  turned  their  goblin-eyes  to- 
ward Westchester  County.  The  races  were  to  begin  at 
a  quarter  to  five  in  the  morning  —  the  earlier  the  better, 
since  they  were  to  continue  almost  six  hours.  The 
honking,  the  rattle,  the  explosion,  the  whirring,  the 
chugging,  the  harsh  breathing  of  automobiles,  left  upon 
the  air  unbroken  clues  like  ribbons  of  sound;  they 
streamed  from  the  Island  City,  from  New  Jersey,  Brook- 
lyn, Long  Island,  from  up  State,  and  inland  town, 
from  points  as  far  remote  as  Cleveland,  Chicago, 
Canada. 

Every  line  of  approach  was  packed  with  panting 
machines  and  noisy  sight-seers.  A  thousand  automo- 

[268] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

biles  had  already  reached  the  Stephen  Memorial  Church, 
having  come  to  Tarrytown  by  way  of  Scarboro.  More 
than  four  thousand  had  reached  the  racetrack,  scat- 
tering along  its  oiled  surface  in  search  of  advantageous 
parking-places.  Among  the  hills  and  promontories 
overlooking  the  elliptical  valley,  grandstands  had  been 
erected  for  the  accommodation  of  seventy-five  thou- 
sand spectators ;  but  it  was  already  evident  that  more 
than  twice  that  number  would  see  the  start-off,  at  four 
forty-five  of  this  April  morning. 

Irving  covered  the  distance  from  Tarrytown  to  East 
View  in  less  than  half  an  hour.  The  more  he  heard 
and  saw,  the  faster  he  was  impelled,  both  body  and 
mind.  His  feet  flew;  so  did  his  thoughts.  The  dull 
roar  of  voices  intoxicated  him;  the  beautiful,  and  the 
richly  dressed,  stirred  him  to  heroic  aspirations.  The 
balmy  air  of  spring  which  to-night  seemed  more  sure  of 
itself  than  hitherto,  and  the  glittering  stars  in  the 
cloudless  sky,  were  to  Irving  as  the  breath  of  love  and 
the  crown  of  youth.  It  seemed  that  though  one  had 
never  loved  before,  he  might  begin  then  and  there,  even 
with  no  definite  object  for  his  desire.  If  he  could  find 
little  Jerry !  At  one  time  he  had  fancied  he  might  have 
cared  for  her.  Why  not  begin  to-night? 

Along  the  thirty-mile  track  the  multitude  had  scat- 
tered between  the  grandstands  seeking  to  preserve  the 
homogeneity  of  family  groups,  but  in  many  cases  dis- 
integrating and  commingling  with  strangers.  They 
gathered  about  camp-fires,  which  roared  from  hundreds 
of  brush-heaps.  Tents  stood  everywhere,  before  which 

[269] 


Something  Else 

bonfires  leaped.  There  was  presented  the  picture  of 
an  encamped  army.  Irving  reconnoitred  it  from  East 
View  to  the  Lodge,  but  Jerry  was  nowhere  to  be  dis- 
covered. 

He  found  the  living  pictures  most  alluring,  not  upon 
the  course,  or  among  the  tents,  but  away  from  the  main 
road.  Anywhere  within  a  quarter-mile  of  it,  you 
might  find  a  camping-party  around  a  fire,  the  women 
asleep  among  the  robes  of  the  automobile,  or  resting 
tired  heads  against  brothers  or  husbands.  Irving 
found  the  contemplation  of  their  weariness  infinitely 
sweet ;  it  seemed  to  speak  of  faith  in  earth  and  sky  and 
fellow-man.  Nor  was  there  enough  room  in  the  cars 
for  all  the  richly  dressed  women;  many  lay  upon  the 
ground,  their  exquisite  robes  protected  by  heavy  rugs. 
Twenty  thousand  women  were  sleeping  thus,  or  seeking 
slumber,  beneath  the  open  sky.  But  among  them,  Jerry 
did  not  appear. 

As  one  in  the  vast  drama,  Irving  resolved  to  take 
more  than  a  passive  part  —  to  become  a  central  figure 
before  the  blinding  footlights  of  the  machine-lamps. 
He  would  build  a  bonfire  of  his  own,  and  watch  the  hu- 
man moths  flutter  to  his  adventure-net.  Soon  after  his 
arrival,  an  army  distinct  from  that  of  the  electric 
vanguard,  more  numerous  and  restless,  began  to  descend 
upon  the  scene  of  future  combat.  This  tremendous  re- 
inforcement came  in  overcrowded  trains  from  Central 
Station  on  Manhattan  Island;  it  crossed  the  river  in 
three  divisions.  As  these  trains,  packed  to  the  guards, 
climbed  the  hills,  the  glitter  of  their  windows  showed 

[270] 


The  Gathering,  of  the  Rich 

like  toy  lights  beneath  the  watchful  moon.  When  the 
cars  were  emptied,  men  and  women  streamed  down  the 
hillsides,  to  stop  before  any  available  fire. 

No  one  seemed  to  care  where  he  stopped.  Off  the 
race-course,  hundreds  of  automobiling  parties  were  lost, 
jesting  about  not  being  able  to  find  their  way,  chatting 
unaffectedly  with  strangers,  as  if  all  were  common 
guests  at  a  Gargantuan  picnic.  Irving,  having  rented 
a  small  space,  and  purchased  fagots  at  an  extortionate 
price  from  the  thrifty  natives,  lighted  his  fire.  He 
heard  on  all  sides,  "Where  are  we?"  "Don't  know. 
Can't  get  through  the  jam.  Better  stop  wherever  you 
find  yourself,  until  daylight."  The  cars  would  whirr 
softly  against  the  yielding  earth,  then  back,  then  chug 
to  one  side  with  impatient  honk,  honk!  —  and  Irving 
would  almost  feel  as  if  he  belonged  to  a  party  of  his 
own.  In  the  meantime  he  increased  his  blaze  and  waited, 
solitary  but  serene. 

If  wisdom  and  virtue  are  ever  rewarded  —  as  as- 
suredly sometimes  is  the  case  —  Irving's  foresight 
furnished  an  illustration  in  point.  For  it  had  hardly 
begun  to  occur  to  him  that  he  was  not  unlike  a  tramp  — 
say  a  Dick  Arnold  —  camping  on  the  edge  of  existence 
while  everybody  else  was  enjoying  real  life, —  before 
his  reward  was  in  his  own  hand.  He  was  standing  with 
his  back  against  the  brushpile,  watching  enormous  tour- 
ing cars  come  out  of  the  night,  their  long  bodies  of 
white,  crimson,  brown,  blue,  and  black,  crawling  along 
with  sudden  flashes  of  twin  eyes,  which  disappeared  at 
the  turning  of  the  goblin-heads.  Like  giant  fireflies 

[271] 


Something  Else 

the  automobiles  hovered,  as  if  about  to  spread  gaudy 
wings.  One  of  these  huge  insects  of  pleasure  crept  up 
to  the  edge  of  Irving's  circle  of  good  cheer ;  and  one  of 
the  fairies  who,  as  it  were,  had  ridden  down  from  an- 
other sphere,  addressed  the  railroad  clerk : 

"  Sir  Knight,  are  all  the  seats  taken?  " 

Irving  advanced  eagerly.  "  There  's  a  box  reserved 
for  your  party,  Dr.  Adams,"  he  exclaimed,  in  impetu- 
ous haste;  for  the  fairy  of  the  white-and-gold  night- 
flier  was  indeed  the  excellent  physician.  The  driver 
at  his  side  was  Claude  Vandever;  and  the  two  ladies  in 
the  tonneau  were  Jerry  and  her  step-mother,  Mrs.  J.  S. 
Vandever.  Behold  the  reward  of  foresight ! 

"  I  'm  found,"  murmured  Jerry,  who  was  glad,  but 
so  sleepy  she  could  not  keep  her  bright  eyes  open.  All 
were  tired  out. 

"  Hello  there,  Knickerbocker,"  called  Claude  Vande- 
ver, lazily,  "  how  's  the  History  of  New  York?  "  He 
and  the  doctor  slowly  descended  from  their  seats. 

"  Just  as  humorous  as  ever,"  Irving  declared,  heart- 
ily grasping  his  hand,  and  looking  beyond  him  at  the 
drooping  Jerry. 

The  doctor  made  a  desperate  effort  at  vivacity. 
"What,  what,  what!  Irving?  How's  ball-tossing?" 
He  had  heard  of  the  young  expert  from  Mr.  Burl.  His 
smile  showed,  for  an  instant,  the  dimple  in  his  chin,  ex- 
actly under  the  middle-parting  of  his  silvery  hair.  But 
it  was  no  use;  he  was  so  sleepy  he  could  hardly  stay 
upon  his  legs. 

In  a  very  short  time,  the  scene  was  shifted  effectively. 
[272] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

Claude,  after  introducing  Irving  to  his  mother  as  "  one 
of  my  best  friends,"  had  carried  away  Bird  Martin  in 
the  automobile  —  Martin,  who  had  appeared  so  closely 
behind  the  others  as  to  suggest  design,  and  who  was  car- 
ried off  to  his  manifest  unwillingness.  Mrs.  Vandever, 
Dr.  Adams,  and  Jerry  were  disposed  among  the  heavy 
rugs  and  robes  which  Claude  had  thrown  overboard  to 
lighten  his  craft,  and  the  young  girl  was  soon  shame- 
lessly asleep. 

To  Irving  it  appeared  the  long-delayed  sequel  to  an 
old  story,  to  find  himself  at  the  feet  of  Mrs.  Vandever. 
She  did  not  look  so  young  as  on  the  day  of  the  divorce 
suit,  or  on  the  night  of  the  theatre  party.  But  the 
touch  of  age,  imparted  by  wakefulness  and  the  weari- 
some incidents  of  more  than  twenty-four  hours,  could  not 
rob  her  speaking  face  of  its  charm,  or  dim  the  melan- 
choly softness  of  her  eyes.  It  was  like  a  faint  shadow 
of  far-off  old  age,  which  the  dawn  would  drive  away. 

"  We  must  get  a  few  winks,"  the  doctor  declared, 
"  or  we  '11  not  be  able  to  keep  our  eyes  open  during  the 
races." 

He  did  not  regret  having  brought  Mrs.  Vandever  to 
the  races,  since  J.  S.  Vandever  could  never  find  time 
for  such  things,  and,  during  Winifred's  absence,  Dr. 
Adams  found  more  time  upon  his  hands  than  he  could 
dispose  of  satisfactorily.  But  he  knew  what  was  due 
his  constitution,  and  he  meant  to  see  that  it  had  its 
tribute  of  attention. 

Mrs.  Vandever  did  not  glance  toward  Winifred's 
grandfather.  For  years  he  had  been  her  only  physi- 
18  [  273  ] 


Something  Else 

clan  of  body  and  mind.  He  had  kept  her  physically 
well,  and  had  let  her  weep  when  she  must.  He  was  one 
of  those  strong  and  congenial  souls  whose  presence  you 
feel  even  when  bodily  absent,  and  who,  when  at  hand, 
receive  your  thought-waves,  and  send  them  back  at  flood- 
tide.  So  Mrs.  Vandever  did  not  glance  toward  him; 
she  did  not  care  to  be  always  looking  into  the  glass  of 
her  past.  But  at  Irving  she  did  look,  with  a  deep  and 
speculative  gaze. 

"  You  resemble  some  one,"  she  murmured,  and  sud- 
denly she  no  longer  felt  sleepy,  or  looked  nearly-old. 
"  Mr.  Payne,  are  you  related  to  —  does  your  father 
live  in  the  city?  " 

"  My  father  died  many  years  ago,"  Irving  answered. 
"  His  home  was  in  Chicago.  I  was  only  an  infant. 
I  've  been  told  that  I  look  like  your  son." 

"Do  you?  Perhaps  you  do.  I  thought  of  some- 
body —  I  think."  Her  voice  died  away.  Had  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Irving  as  he  sat  in  the  court  room 
beside  Dick  Arnold?  Very  likely  that  was  the  cause 
of  her  perplexity.  Irving  hoped  she  would  fail  in  her 
attempt  to  bring  back  the  memory.  He  did  not  care 
to  be  associated  in  her  mind  with  his  friend,  the  tramp 
* —  his  friend,  her  first  husband.  How  incredible ! 

"  I  am  curious  to  hear  your  voice,"  came  her  flexible 
tones.  "  It  may  bring  to  me  what  I  seek.  Shall  we 
talk?  Your  mother— " 

"  She,  too,"  Irving  answered,  "  died  before  I  can 
recollect." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  me  before,  Mr. —  Payne  ?  " 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

"  On  New  Year's  Eve,  at  the  theatre." 

"  Then  perhaps  —  but  that  would  be  flattery."  Her 
smile  was  full  of  a  tender  sadness.  "  But  you  are  one 
of  Claude's  best  friends ;  that 's  enough."  As  if  moved 
by  an  impulse  she  did  not  herself  understand,  she  held 
out  her  hand.  "We  ought  to  ratify,  oughtn't  we? 
You  '11  never  be  a  stranger  again,  I  hope."  She  held 
his  hand  even  when  he  offered  to  draw  away ;  in  her  soft 
pressure  was  a  yearning  for  something  infinitely  re- 
mote from  Irving,  yet  something  to  which  he  must  have 
formed  a  link. 

It  surprised  Irving,  but  touched  him  more,  that  he 
should  stir  within  her  a  tender  regret  for  any  buried 
joy.  Her  face  suggested  strongly  that  some  sort  of 
spiritual  relationship  should  exist  between  them.  Out 
of  the  world  of  the  unknown  she  had  risen,  with  all 
that  familiarity  one  sometimes  finds  in  strangers,  hint- 
ing at  past  existence,  or  future  association.  Possibly 
his  acquaintanceship  with  Claude  might  explain  this 
feeling. 

"  We  '11  not  try  to  account  for  it,"  said  Mrs.  Vande- 
ver,  almost  impatiently,  as  if  reading  his  thoughts, 
"  unless  you  accept  the  Identification  Theory.  That  is 
a  fascinating  philosophy,  don't  you  think?  " 

Irving,  suddenly  in  deep  water,  professed  but  a  cur- 
sory acquaintanceship  with  the  new  school  of  thought 
which,  to  his  artist-friend,  he  had  denounced  on  more 
than  one  occasion.  He  divined  that  Mrs.  Vandever  was 
a  sensitive  woman  with  an  unhappy  past  and  a  disap- 
pointing present,  and  that,  in  seeking  peace  of  mind, 

[275] 


Something  Else 

though  but  for  a  day,  she  allowed  herself  to  drift  from 
theory  to  theory. 

As  Mrs.  Vandever  talked,  in  her  richly  inflexioned 
voice,  of  Identification,  it  seemed  that  to  her  tones  clung 
a  perfume  of  the  dried  rose  leaves  of  other  faiths.  This, 
too,  may  fail,  she  seemed  to  say,  but  happily  it  will  en- 
dure until  the  next  discovery.  As  she  talked,  Irving 
filled  his  eyes,  thence  his  brain  and  heart,  not  with  Iden- 
tification, but  with  the  picture  of  a  gorgeous  crimson 
slumber-robe,  bearing  its  pure  snowflake  of  maidenhood 

—  Jerry,  by  name  —  which  one  might  fancy  about  to 
melt  away  under  the  rosy  warmth  of  the  bonfire. 

Christianity  was  too  old-fashioned.  Nobody  went  to 
church  these  days, —  for  this  was  the  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury, always  to  be  written  in  capitals;  but  if  anybody 
should  go,  what  would  he  find,  more  than  a  faint  echo 
of  the  Christ-call,  reflected  from  the  deadening  walls  of 
modernity?  Mrs.  Vandever  had  been  a  Christian,  then 
an  Orientalist;  but  she  felt  sure  that  Identification  had 
a  wider  appeal ;  it  was  for  anybody  who  wants  anything 

—  and  who  does  n't  ? 

"  The  philosophy  of  the  Identifier  is  so  simple,"  she 
said,  languidly.  "  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  form  a  mental 
image  of  a  desired  object;  as  soon  as  the  mental  image 
exactly  reproduces  the  coveted  object,  image  and  object 
become  identical." 

"  I  have  made  a  mental  image  of  Slumber,"  drowsily 
murmured  Dr.  Adams,  "  and  if  you  can  tell  it  from  me 
in  two  minutes,  I  'm  no  true  Identifier." 

This  levity  was  treated  with  that  unanswerable  weight 
[276] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

of  seriousness  which,  from  its  mere  specific  gravity,  can 
crush  to  powder  the  most  cogent  reasoning. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  Irving  asked,  looking  covertly  at 
Jerry's  unconscious  face,  and  feeling  that  he  was  getting 
a  thousand  times  his  money's  worth,  "  that  if  I  want 
anything  —  well,  say  a  person,  for  instance  —  a  friend, 
you  understand  —  if  I  make  a  mental  picture  of  that 
person,  by  reproducing  in  thought  her  features,  voice, 
form  —  or  his  features  —  yes,  his,  you  know, —  and  if 
my  mental  picture  is  exactly  true,  that  then  I  can  get 
the  love  of  —  of  him?  " 

"  We  do  not  speak  of  getting.  You  have  him  already, 
as  soon  as  your  mental  image  corresponds  to  his  appear- 
ance. You  make  him  yours  by  identifying  him  with 
yourself.  He  is  not  only  yours,  he  is  you." 

"In  a  physical  sense?"  Irving  ventured.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  an  experiment  should  be  very  inter- 
esting. 

"  There  is  no  physical  sense,"  returned  the  other,  with 
the  confidence  known  only  to  those  who  understand  the 
universe.  "  The  Identifier  does  not  seek  to  reproduce 
physical  pictures.  To  gain  a  friend,  you  must  form  a 
mental  image  of  his  spiritual  qualities.  You  must  know 
him  as  he  is.  Then  he  becomes  you.  The  process  is 
called  an  Ostentation.  It  is  only  those  who  have  com- 
muned long  and  intimately  with  truth,  who  can  make  a 
complete  Ostentation." 

From  the  theme  of  her  religion,  she  presently  passed, 
as  by  a  natural  deflection,  to  her  extensive  charities. 
With  her  beautiful  face  touched  by  a  kindly  desire  to 

[277] 


Something  Else 

entertain  Irving,  in  a  voice  eloquent  with  living  inter- 
est, she  described  her  Home  for  Friendless  Cats.  The 
idea  was  by  no  means  original,  but,  as  yet,  it  had  not 
been  overworked.  Every  spring,  at  the  Hegira  of 
Fashion,  petted  toms  and  tabbies  were  left  to  perish  at 
the  closed  portals  of  affluence,  or  to  mew  away  their 
lives  in  malodorous  back  alleys.  The  beautiful  marble 
palace  erected  by  Mrs.  Vandever  on  Long  Island  for 
these  unfortunate  creatures,  had  proved  a  blessing  to 
families  who  did  not  care  to  take  their  purring  favorites 
on  their  rounds  at  fashionable  summer  resorts.  At 
"  Gotham  Pussery  "  cats  of  all  degrees  were  consoled 
for  absence  from  sunlit  ranges,  until  such  times  as  maids 
and  footmen  came  to  bear  them  home. 

It  occurred  to  Irving  that  Gotham  Pussery  had  taken 
the  place,  in  Mrs.  Vandever's  life,  of  a  normal  interest 
in  human  beings ;  he  felt  no  inclination  to  smile.  In- 
stead, he  was  sensible  of  a  secret  compassion,  that  she 
should  be  obliged,  because,  doubtless  of  a  starved  life,  to 
find  her  satisfaction  in  the  newest  styles  of  religions,  and 
to  follow  the  latest  swing  of  the  charity-pendulum  from 
East  Side  waifs  to  West  Side  cats.  In  the  young  man's 
opinion,  he  got  more  out  of  life  at  "  twenty  per,"  than 
did  Mrs.  Vandever  at  eighty  thousand  a  year. 

The  stimulated  interest  that  had  come  from  Irving's 
likeness  to  some  one  Mrs.  Vandever  had  known,  presently 
grew  dulled  under  the  stress  of  exhausted  nature.  She 
slept,  with  her  companions.  Irving  wandered  to  the 
fire,  and,  standing  there,  with  his  back  to  all  the  noisy 
and  confused  world,  he  looked  at  Jerry  to  his  heart's 

[  278  ] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

content.  At  Jessie  Tiff,  one  could  look  too  often.  Was 
it  because  Jerry  Vandever  was  so  small,  that  you  could 
never  see  enough  of  her?  The  night  wore  slowly  on, 
but  not  slowly  enough  for  the  railroad  clerk;  for  the 
night  was  all  that  belonged  to  him.  It  was  almost  time 
for  the  dawn  to  lift,  when  Jerry  stirred,  rousing  herself 
from  profound  slumber,  and  waking  him  from  a  pro- 
found trance. 

Those  gray  eyes  opened  with  deliberate  slowness,  as 
if  afraid  of  scaring  away  a  preconceived  impression. 
They  looked  full  at  Irving  —  sure  enough,  it  was  no 
mistake!  He  saw  the  characteristic  white  thought- 
flashing  illumine  the  delicate  cheeks.  "  You !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"  And  you!  "  said  Irving,  sinking  upon  his  knee  at 
her  side. 

She  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  and  drew  a  warm  slim 
hand  from  under  the  robe.  "How  jolly!"  she  ex- 
claimed, radiantly.  "  Did  I  know  you  were  here  ?  " 
Irving's  cheeks  were  filled  with  the  color  of  her  slumber- 
robe.  "  You  must  have  stepped  right  out  of  my 
dream,"  she  declared.  "  Take  my  hand,  and  help  me  up. 
I  was  never  more  wide-awake  in  my  life.  Let  's  slip 
away  to  the  bonfire,  and  not  wake  'em.: — just  you  and 
I ;  there  '11  be  a  thousand  chaperons  all  around. 
Mercy!  Isn't  this  a  jollification!  Goodness!  I  feel 
like  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  off  the  dollar." 

Her  hand  was  in  his.  He  drew  her  up,  and  toward 
him.  "  And  I  'm  the  Fourth  of  July,  in  your  honor," 
he  declared.  Her  face  was  so  close,  that  her  breath 

[279] 


Something  Else 

was  upon  his  cheek.     He  felt  her  yield  to  his  impelling 
force. 

They  could  not  possibly  have  approached  their  faces 
nearer  without  a  meeting  of  the  lips.  Jerry  looked  up 
into  his  eyes  with  a  flashing  laugh,  then  drew  back.  "  So 
many  are  looking,  you  know,"  she  said  lightly. 

"  I  dreamed  you  did  once,"  said  Irving.  Still  hold- 
ing her  hand,  he  led  the  way  to  the  bonfire. 

"  Was  it  —  pleasant  ?  "  inquired  Jerry. 

"  I  did  n't  rub  it  off,"  Irving  declared. 

She  flashed  at  him  again.  "  How  did  you  come  here, 
Mr.  Payne?" 

"  Just  stepped  off  Mars,  at  the  last  conjunction." 

Jerry's  quick  flashes  came  and  went  with  the  pulsa- 
tion of  the  sheer  pleasure  of  youth.  "  What  do  they 
talk  about,  on  Mars?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  of  you." 

"What  do  they  say  about  me?  "  She  stood  before 
the  bonfire,  with  one  hand  clasping  her  slender  arm  as 
it  swung  behind  her,  just  as  she  had  stood  in  Dr. 
Adams's  little  reception-room.  Irving's  face  glowed; 
he  was  too  near  the  fire,  perhaps. 

He  answered,  "  Everybody  on  Mars  feels  about  you 
in  the  oddest  way  —  as  if  you  were  the  only  woman  in 
the  world.  They  feel  — " 

"  With  four  letters  ?  "  inquired  Jerry,  innocently. 

"  And  begins  with  '  L,'  "  came  swiftly  back  to  her. 

"  Not  the  one  the  English  go  to,  I  hope,"  she  mur- 
mured, wickedly. 

"Jerry?" 

[280] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

"  But  — " 

"  Jerry !  If  I  don't  begin  calling  you  that  this  mo- 
ment, how  am  I  ever  to  grow  up  to  it  ?  It  's  already  six 
weeks,  or  more,  since  we  've  had  a  good  talk  —  the  only 
talk,  by  the  way  —  and  soon  I  must  leave  you,  Jerry." 

"  You  must  be  very  fond  of  Mars." 

"  No,  it  is  n't  that,  Jerry.  I  'd  have  come  sooner, 
only  I  have  to  wait  for  a  conjunction.  We  have  a  con- 
junction whenever  there  's  a  high  tide  —  of  finance." 

"  Then  you  wanted  to  come  sooner?  " 

"Oh,  Jerry!" 

"  Ever  and  ever  so  much  ?  " 

"  Just  like  that." 

"  Good  thing  you  came  when  you  did,"  she  declared, 
threateningly.  "  I  'm  already  dreadfully  old  —  eigh- 
teen almost,  if  you  can  take  my  word  for  it  —  and  next 
fall  I  make  my  debut,  and  then,  Mr.  Payne."  She 
waved  out  her  arm  as  if  to  sweep  him  back  to  his  remote 
planet. 

"  Don't,  Jerry !  "  Irving  gasped.  "  It  made  me  feel 
horribly  lonesome,  when  you  did  that." 

"  But  I  '11  stay  with  you  to-day,  if  you  want  me," 
she  said,  adorably. 

Irving  groaned.  "  I  have  to  go  back.  I  'm  a  Deep 
Waterway  Commissioner.  I  begin  digging  on  my 
canal,  at  nine  A.  M.  That 's  why  we  have  to  talk  fast. 
That  's  why  I  have  to  tell  you  with  so  much  abruptness 
—  nothing  to  lead  up  to  it,  for  lack  of  time  —  that 
there  's  nobody  on  the  earth  like  you,  Jerry." 

"  But  what  about  Mars  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  him 
[281] 


Something  Else 

with  pulsating  temples,  flashing  cheeks,  quivering  lips, 
pointed  chin,  restless  feet,  vibrating  body.  Of  course 
she  looked  at  him  with  the  gray  eyes;  but  her  vision 
seemed  distributed,  as  if  all  her  body  were  but  a  chain 
of  thrilling  life-points,  sending  forth  the  electric  waves 
of  a  personality  charged  with  an  amazing  number  of 
volts. 

"There  are  no  women  on  Mars,"  Irving  declared; 
"  not  one,  not  one !  That 's  why  I  've  come  across. 
And  now  before  your  mother  wakes  up  — " 

"  My  step-mother,  you  mean." 

"  Poor  Jerry !  "  he  murmured,  compassionately. 

"  Poor  nothing!  Step-mothers  are  the  most  satis- 
factory, 7  think.  You  do  what  you  please,  and  they 
don't  expect  anything.  '  Lady  Vandever,'  as  I  've  al- 
ways called  mine,  is  a  darling.  Irving  Payne,  let 's  quit 
being  clever ;  will  you  agree  ?  Or  can  you  help  it  ?  " 

"It  will  be  hard,"  he  allowed.  "What  shall  we 
gain?  " 

"  I  really  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously,"  she  said ; 
and  she  looked  in  earnest,  for  the  first  time.  "  That 's 
why  I  dreamt  of  you.  I  have  a  dear  friend  in  trouble 
—  I  know  you  'd  love  her  —  and  I  want  to  get  her  out. 
I  was  wondering  who  could  help  me  —  and  thought  of 
you.  Are  you  flattered?  Somehow,  you  are  different 
from  anybody  I  ever  knew  —  as  anybody  living  on 
Mars  ought  to  be.  Dig  under  your  sand,  and  I  'm  sure 
there  's  bedrock  to  build  upon."  v 

"  But  sand  is  a  good  thing,  too,"  responded  Irving, 
secretly  pleased. 

[  282  ] 


The  Gathering  of  the  Rich 

"  Oh,  I  know  —  but  I  have  all  the  sand  I  have  need 
of.  Bedrock  is  what  I  want.  Under  the  sand  of  most 
people  is  only  —  mud.  That 's  why  I  'm  going  to  trust 
you,  in  telling  you  an  awfully  serious  history,  and  in  ask- 
ing your  advice.  For  my  friend —  she  '11  be  just  eigh- 
teen, in  Newport-days  —  is  miserably  unhappy ;  and  she 
is  so  dear  to  me  that  sometimes  —  Well,"  she  laughed 
somewhat  unsteadily,  "  sometimes  I  am  unhappy  my- 
self." 


[283] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  RACE  AGAINST  DEATH 

IT  was  in  the  midst  of  ten  thousand  jangling  and 
discordant  noises  that  Jerry  began  the  story  of 
her  friend's  difficult  position  —  a  position  which 
Irving  was  assured  made  even  Jerry  miserable. 

"  She  is  pretty  and  charming,  my  friend  of  nearly 
eighteen,  and  last  summer,  at  Atlantic  City,  she  was 
married.  In  secret.  Such  a  foolish,  idiotic  business  — 
Where  's  my  dictionary  of  synonyms  ?  "  Her  face  had 
clouded,  its  light  muffled  in  sombre  thoughts. 

"  In  my  heart,"  said  Irving,  who  could  not  think  her 
deeply  in  earnest.  "  Beautiful,  charming,  delicious  — " 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  the  synonyms  for  Jerry  Vandever," 
she  impatiently  retorted.  "  I  should ;  I  've  heard  'em 
often  enough.  I  want  to  describe  that  marriage.  You 
must  understand,  he  was  the  sort  she  'd  never  known  be- 
fore. It  was  n't  love  at  first  sight ;  but  she  found  him 
different,  and  she  did  n't  know  what  it  was.  It  seemed 
a  prank  to  skip  off  the  Boardwalk,  and  get  married. 
He  was  wild  and  Westy  without  the  wool,  and  she  — 
well,  she  's  pretty  gay,  too.  But  as  she  was  n't  of  age, 
it  is  n't  a  legal  marriage.  She  never  thought  much  of 
that;  but  just  as  soon  as  it  was  done,  she  found  it  a  — " 
Her  voice  sank,  "  a  horrible  mistake." 

[284*] 


The  Race  against  Death 

Irving  was  shocked  by  the  aversion  her  features  ex- 
pressed. 

Although  the  babel  of  voices  broke  in  jarring  waves 
on  every  side,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  Jerry  paused,  that 
the  air  was  impregnated  with  a  deep  silence.  She 
leaned  forward,  one  foot  playing  nervously  with  some 
twigs  that  had  fallen  from  the  heap.  She  slowly  moved 
them  back  and  forth,  as  in  a  studied  game.  The  hand 
that  clasped  her  arm,  as  it  swung  behind  her,  slipped 
up  to  the  elbow.  Presently  she  resumed,  still  with  eyes 
intent  upon  the  sliding  foot: 

"  They  were  married,  in  Atlantic  City  —  had  run 
away  from  a  house-party  that  —  had  ridden  over  from  a 
country  place  —  married  under  assumed  names.  I  tell 
you,  there  was  nothing  legal  about  it.  Just  after  the 
ceremony  they  took  the  train  for  Philadelphia  — 
reached  there  at  dark  —  went  to  a  hotel,  registered  as 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  So-and-so.  It  was  when  the  bellboy 
got  the  key  from  the  clerk,  and  told  them  to  follow 
him,  that  —  oh,  I  don't  know,  exactly.  That  man  — 
the  man  my  friend  had  married  —  looked  into  her  face, 
and  she  found  it  was  —  what  I  said  —  a  horrible  mis- 
take. She  sent  him  away  —  that  man  —  on  some  sort 
of  pretence  —  yes,  she  wanted  something  before  coming 
down  to  dinner,  must  have  it.  She  thought  to  herself, 
4  //  he  won't  go?  '  But  he  went." 

Jerry  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Then  she  slipped  from 
that  hotel  —  fairly  flew,  I  tell  you  —  to  the  station,  to 
the  country  place ;  and  nobody  ever  found  it  out."  She 
raised  her  head,  and  Irving  found  her  cheeks  stained 

[285] 


Something  Else 

with  bands  of  crimson.  How  ashamed  she  appeared  to 
be,  for  her  friend's  folly! 

"  Well !  "  cried  Irving,  consolingly,  "  since  nothing 
came  of  it,  and  can't,  as  it  was  n't  legal ;  and,  best  of  all, 
since  it 's  somebody  else's  story  — " 

"  But  something  has  come  of  it,"  returned  Jerry, 
giving  the  twigs  a  vicious  blow  with  the  toe  of  her  slip- 
per, that  sent  them  into  the  fire.  "  That  man  bobs  up 
everlastingly.  He  wants  that  girl ;  that 's  why  he  mar- 
ried her.  He  loves  her,  and  he  holds  that  power  over 
her  —  the  secret.  He  has  n't  used  the  power  yet,  he 
does  n't  exactly  threaten,  unless  by  his  eyes ;  but  I  tell 
you  he  wants  her,  and  means  to  make  her  his  wife  — 
and  she  's  afraid.  What  would  you  do  ?  "  She  broke 
off  suddenly. 

Irving  answered,  without  hesitation,  "  The  affair 
was  n't  a  marriage, —  merely  a  foolish  indiscretion. 
The  girl  should  tell  her  family,  and  let  them  settle  him 
for  good." 

Jerry  stamped  her  foot  impatiently.  "  Tell  her 
family ! "  she  echoed,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  Yes ! 
That  would  be  pleasant !  And  would  n't  they  always  be 
afraid  of  her  doing  something  else  rash?  It  would  put 
an  end  to  her  liberty." 

"  The  sooner,  the  better,"  said  Irving,  taking  a  man's 
view  of  the  subject. 

"  Oh,  bother !  "  retorted  Jerry,  who  had  advanced 
ideas.  "  So  that  is  the  only  solution  that  occurs  to 
you?  Well,  I  know  one  better.  And  you  can  help  me. 

[286] 


The  Race  against  Death 

1 'm  going  to  trust  you  fully.  You  know  Claude? 
He  's  the  man." 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  Irving.  "  Is  it  possible?  But 
I  don't  see  anything  wild  or  Westy  about  him. 
Claude  's  a  fine  fellow,  I  think.  If  he  really  loves  the 
girl,  how  could  she  do  better  ?  " 

"  What  queer  ideas  you  must  have  on  Mars !  Don't 
I  tell  you  she  wants  to  be  free?  How  can  she  care  for 
a  man,  when  she  's  afraid  of  his  power  over  her?  Be- 
sides, she  wants  nothing  but  liberty.  Oh,  but  he  is 
wild  and  Westy,  for  all  that.  You  don't  know  Claude. 
He  has  always  picked  out  such  chums  as  Colorado  — 
he  likes  something  different,  just  as  I  do.  Maybe 
that 's  why  he  took  a  notion  to  my  friend  —  she  's  out 
of  the  humdrum,  herself.  Gay !  " 

"  It  must  have  been  a  great  adventure  —  for  him," 
mused  Irving.  "  And  after  your  friend  treated  him  so 
shabbily,  I  think  it  was  splendid  for  him  to  keep  mum." 

"  Yes  —  but  he  's  only  biding  his  time.  He  means 
to  marry  her  yet.  And  she  means  that  he  shan't. 
And  you  're  to  help  us." 

Irving  was  perplexed.  "But  how?  Remember,  I 
live  on  Mars." 

Jerry  answered,  with  appealing  eyes,  "I  will  tell 
you  what  you  are  to  do  for  me  —  I  won't  say  for  my 
friend ;  I  '11  say  for  my  sake.  But  Dr.  Adams  is  awake. 
Anyhow,  I  am  not  entirely  sure  of  you,"  she  added  with 
a  sudden  delicious  laugh.  "  I  '11  tell  you  later.  You  '11 
have  to  choose  between  me  and  Claude;  and,  just  at 

[287] 


Something  Else 

present,  I  'm  afraid  you  might  go  over  to  the  enemy. 
Since  you  won't  have  to  go  to  digging  canals  until  late, 
you  must  stay  to  the  first  of  the  races  —  stay  with  me 
—  won't  you,  Irving?  " 

After  that,  would  n't  he  ?  And  before  that,  for  that 
matter.  Before  carrying  away  the  automobile,  Claude 
Vandever  and  Bird  Martin  had  lifted  an  enormous 
hamper  to  the  ground.  Of  course  Irving  shared  in  the 
picnic-repast,  and  he  hardly  knew  which  he  found  most 
delightful,  Mrs.  Vandever's  refined  cordiality,  Dr. 
Adams's  boyish  gusto,  Jerry's  quick  movements  and 
nimble  brain,  or  the  mere  consciousness  that  he  was  a 
part  of  the  swirling  tide  of  life.  Not  only  was  the 
part  an  entertaining  addition,  but  a  useful  one,  since 
Claude  did  not  appear  till  the  meal  had  been 
despatched. 

Claude  at  last  came  on  foot,  with  the  dismal  intelli- 
gence that  he  had  broken  an  auto-wheel,  or,  rather,  that 
it  had  seemingly  broken  itself  without  cause,  and  the 
machine  would  have  to  be  hauled  by  powerful  horses  to 
the  side  of  the  race-course.  His  glowing  cheeks, 
unusually  bright  eyes,  and  gay  humor  over  misfortunes, 
suggested  that  the  auto-wheel  was  not  the  only  one  that 
had  gone  wrong. 

Dr.  Adams  whispered  to  Irving,  "  I  fear  the  young 
scapegrace  has  been  tossing  rather  high  balls  of  his 
own,  eh?  " 

Perhaps  he  had,  but  Irving  did  not  reply.  He  felt  an 
impulse  to  hide  the  weakness  of  his  friend.  He  hoped 
Mrs.  Vandever  had  not  noticed,  but  it  occurred  to  him 

[288] 


The  Race  against  Death 

that  Claude's  taste  for  gay  life  might  have  caused  some 
of  the  mother's  melancholy. 

During  the  course  of  the  breakfast,  Winifred  Adams 
had  been  mentioned,  and  the  very  name  brought  to 
Irving's  mind  the  sense  of  another  atmosphere.  For  a 
moment,  his  gayety  was  flawed.  He  found  himself  wish- 
ing that  Jerry,  who  so  evidently  liked  him,  might  have 
been  more  like  Winifred.  What  a  dear  old  world  it 
would  be,  if  it  could  ever  like  you  for  exactly  what  you 
are! 

Swiftly  events  moved  forward  to  Irving's  climax. 
The  automobile  had  been  patched  up  sufficiently  to  be 
drawn  to  a  parking-place  overlooking  the  race-course. 
Our  friends,  along  with  some  two  hundred  thousand 
other  folk,  awaited  the  first  booming  of  the  dynamite- 
signal. 

At  last,  around  the  thirty-mile  circuit  ran  the  cry, 
swift  as  the  very  wind,  "  Car  coming !  "  Signal  flags 
were  waved.  The  regiment  forces  sought  to  keep  back 
the  crowd  which,  being  American,  would  stay  behind  no 
line  laid  out  by  law  and  order ;  would,  on  the  contrary, 
pack  itself,  in  hopeless  congestion,  in  the  way  of  any  pos- 
sible danger.  The  Vandever  car  looked  upon  a  bit  of 
zigzag  road  leading  to  a  bridge.  It  was  five  o'clock. 

Suddenly  from  around  a  bend  in  the  road  appeared 
a  blood-red  glow,  like  a  second  sun  racing  out  of  the 
sky.  Almost  as  soon  as  seen,  it  resolved  itself  into 
a  huge  car,  swerving  from  one  side  to  the  other  of  the 
crooked  road.  It  boomed  across  the  bridge.  It  was 
gone. 

19  [  289  ] 


Something  Else 

"  Car  coming!  "  This  one  was  gray.  It  shot  past 
the  spectators  like  the  nebula  of  another  world,  weird, 
scintillating  from  the  morning's  first  bright  sun- 
shafts. 

"  Car  Coming!  "  And  when  the  twenty-two,  entered 
for  the  races,  had  made  their  first  lap,  one  had  grown 
used  to  the  aerial  visitants,  which  came  out  of  space, 
and  vanished  into  distance  like  fleeing  comets.  But  one 
never  grew  quite  used  to  the  danger  of  short  turns, 
which  ever  hinted  at  death. 

Two  hours  passed.  They  almost  seemed  as  many 
minutes,  to  the  retreating,  onrushing  observers  —  that 
ribbon  of  humanity  on  each  side  of  the  track,  which 
wavered  back  and  forth  at  every  approach,  and  which 
never  wearied  of  mad  cheering.  In  this  reckless  line, 
on  the  side  next  the  Vandever  machine,  Claude  persisted 
in  holding  a  foremost  place  of  daring. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when,  at  the  first  sharp  turn, 
"  No.  13  "  —  a  green  stripe  of  paint  warding  off  the 
ill-luck  of  the  number  —  threw  up  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and  caused  a  rain  of  gravel  forty  feet  away.  The  car 
careened,  and  lost  its  balance.  The  wheels  on  one  side 
rose  in  air,  and  were  still  off  the  road  when  it  bent  back 
and  zigzagged  over  a  culvert.  The  car  fell  back  upon 
the  suspended  wheels  with  a  crash  that  lifted  up  the 
wheels  on  the  other  side.  The  bend  was  taken  at  a 
frightful  angle,  at  the  speed  of  a  mile  a  minute.  It 
seemed  that  the  car's  side  must  be  crushed  into  the 
earth.  The  driver,  gripping  his  short  cigar  between 
clenched  teeth,  bent  to  the  tilting  of  his  machine,  and 

[290] 


The  Race  against  Death 

all  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  apparently  to  destruc- 
tion. 

He  was  "  Old  Gibsy  "  a  favorite  of  the  populace. 
The  other  twenty-one  cars  must  pass  before  it  could  be 
known  whether  or  not  he  survived.  All  during  this 
time  of  suspense,  while  cars,  red,  drab,  gray,  and  white, 
flitted  by,  Jerry  stood  on  the  front  seat,  with  Irving 
beside  her.  She  was  holding  his  hand  to  steady  herself, 
not  conscious  of  holding  anything.  Perhaps  Irving  did 
not  know  his  hand  was  being  clutched,  sometimes  con- 
vulsively. Perhaps  he  did  not  remember  that  somewhere 
near  the  sky  over  Broadway,  a  railroad  office  would  pres- 
ently be  waiting  for  him. 

The  car  that  had  succeeded  in  outdistancing  all 
others,  was  of  Italian  make ;  its  driver,  however,  was  an 
American.  Whenever  this  red  machine  appeared,  there 
was  an  international  scream  for  Italy,  and  for  the 
United  States.  One  sees  it  coming  now,  three  hundred 
yards  ahead  of  the  gap.  The  police-hardened  mob  — 
in  which  Claude  ever  makes  a  vociferous  unit  —  sees 
the  front  wheels  rise  in  air,  as  if  to  leap  upon  their 
heads.  They  fall  back  in  wild  confusion.  Oh,  how 
Jerry  clings  to  Irving's  hand!  The  oil  on  the  track 
has  long  since  ceased  to  "  hold."  The  car  that  has 
just  whizzed  by,  leaves  a  dense  pillar  of  smoky  dust, 
completely  hiding  the  gap.  Into  this  choking  ob- 
scurity the  Italian  car  leaps,  quivering,  spluttering,  to 
take  the  turns  as  chance  may  direct.  A  strap,  fastened 
to  the  tool-box  at  the  rear,  has  worked  loose.  It 
threatens  to  become  entangled  with  the  driving-chain. 

[291] 


Something  Else 

To  continue  so,  means  probable  death ;  to  stop,  means  of 
a  surety,  to  lose  the  race.  The  mechanic,  opened  knife 
in  mouth,  crawls  over  the  swaying  body  of  the  car.  He 
leans  over  the  end,  sustaining  himself  with  one  hand. 
His  head  is  near  the  fleeing  earth.  He  reaches  down 
with  flashing  blade.  The  next  instant  the  dust-curtain 
had  closed  upon  the  picture  of  his  peril. 

"Car  coming!"  Is  it  —  yes  —  no  —  but  yes,  a 
blurred  blue,  that  is  what  the  tearing  speed  has  mixed 
from  red  and  green  —  yes,  green  —  a  green  ribbon  of 
mist  about  a  looming  meteor. 

"  It 's  Old  Gibsy !  It 's  old  Gibsy !  "  He  holds  his 
cigar-stump  ground  in  the  clench  of  immovable  teeth. 
It  's  our  old  favorite  —  not  really  old,  at  all, —  and 
he  's  safe  and  sound,  and  going  at  breakneck  speed  — • 
possibly  he  '11  overtake  the  Italian  car.  Probably  he 
will.  Of  course  he  will !  "  Go  it,  Old  Gibsy !  " 

Oh,  how  Jerry  wrings  Irving's  hand,  as  she  jumps  up 
and  down,  her  eyes  blazing,  her  sweet  girlish  voice  quite 
hoarse  and  discordant,  now,  with  her  — "  It 's  Old  Gibsy. 
Hurrah  for  America !  Hurrah  for  US  !  " 

And  Irving,  also  wildly  enthusiastic,  exclaims,  "  You 
darling!  You  beautiful  Jerry!  Hurrah  for  Old 
Gibsy  !  Hurrah  for  Jerry !  " 

"  Oh,  it 's  glorious,  it 's  glorious,"  Jerry  pants,  al- 
most exhausted  from  patriotism.  "  Now  there  comes 
that  drab  one.  I  hope  it  won't  win,  don't  you?  I  hope 
it  won't.  I  wish  it  would  break  something  —  not  kill 
anybody  —  quite.  But  did  you  see  Old  Gibsy,  so  cool, 
so  —  Look !  look !  "  The  car  had  almost  careened. 


The  Race  against  Death 

Speech  perished  in  a  mighty  shout.  There  was  a 
surging  back  of  the  lawless  mass,  a  futile  appeal  from 
police  and  militiamen,  a  treading  down  of  some  one  in 
the  throng,  and  such  ravenous  curiosity  to  see  the  in- 
jured man,  that  if  he  escaped  fatal  mangling,  suffocation 
seemed  inevitable. 

"  Somebody  is  being  trampled  to  death !  "  exclaimed 
Dr.  Adams,  who  sat  beside  Mrs.  Vandever.  Yes,  to  be 
sure,  those  two  had  been  all  this  while  in  the  tonneau, 
within  reach  of  Irving's  hand,  but  a  thousand  miles  from 
his  perception! 

Irving  did  not  need  the  physician's  warning  to  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  the  sudden  panic.  From  his  elevated 
position  he  saw  not  only  the  crumpled  form,  but  the 
bloodless  face.  It  was  Claude. 

Irving's  first  impulse  was  to  hide  the  identity  of  the 
fallen  man  from  his  mother  and  sister;  his  next,  to 
leap  to  the  ground,  and  battle  with  the  mob.  He  pushed 
his  way  through  the  congested  mass  of  shouting 
humanity;  he  leaped  over  obstacles  that  had  become 
fixed  by  the  press ;  he  struck  savagely  at  some  one  who 
injudiciously  sought  to  maintain  standing-room;  he 
reached  the  motionless  figure.  The  next  moment  he  had 
lifted  him  in  his  arms. 

Jerry  stood  waiting,  almost  forgetting  the  races  in 
her  curiosity;  but  Irving  penetrated  the  crowd  at  a 
point  remote  from  the  disabled  automobile,  and  with 
the  help  of  the  tardy  police,  succeeded  in  bearing  Claude 
from  the  field,  without  revealing  his  identity  to  those 
in  the  car. 

[293] 


Something  Else 

It  was  half  an  hour  later  when  Irving  suddenly 
reappeared  beside  the  Vandever  machine.  Jerry  had  al- 
ready forgotten  him,  or  pretended  that  she  had,  and 
kept  her  eyes  resolutely  upon  the  race-course.  But 
Irving  had  not  come  to  speak  to  Jerry. 

"  What,  what,  what !  You  again  1  "  exclaimed  Dr. 
Adams,  with  a  shake  of  his  head.  "  Do  you  know  it  5s 
ten  o'clock?" 

Irving  had  a  sudden  vision  of  a  Broadway  railroad 
office,  but  he  did  not  betray  any  feeling  save  a  certain 
steel-like  intensity.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  a  mo- 
ment," he  said,  withdrawing,  that  the  other  might  fol- 
low. He  added,  impellingly,  "  On  business !  " 

"  Business  ?  "  repeated  the  physician,  grumblingly. 
Nevertheless,  he  descended  to  the  ground  with  youthful 
agility,  and  overtook  Irving,  suspecting  the  call  had  to 
do  with  the  accident. 

"  Dr.  Adams,"  said  Irving  speaking  rapidly, 
"  Claude  has  met  with  a  serious  accident.  He  was 
trampled  upon  dreadfully." 

"  So  it  was  Claude,  eh?  "  snapped  the  physician. 
"  Where  is  he  ?  I  thought  that  fellow  was  somebody 
who  'd  been  drinking  —  might  have  known !  " 

"  I  took  him  to  the  nearest  hospital  —  you  know 
they  've  arranged  some  temporary  — " 

"  Of  course  I  know.  Come  along.  Let 's  run  for 
it." 

They  ran  for  it.  When  the  tent  was  reached,  they 
found  several  surgeons  in  charge,  each  with  a  keen, 

[  294  ] 


The  Race  against  Death 

scientific  interest  in  the  only  casualty  of  the  morning. 
Dr.  Adams  was  greeted  both  as  physician  and  as  a 
representative  of  the  victim's  family.  After  a  thorough 
examination,  the  physicians  withdrew  for  consultation, 
leaving  Irving  with  the  nurses.  He  had  not  been  long 
with  the  apparently  lifeless  body  of  his  friend,  before 
Dr.  Adams  reappeared  with  the  others. 

Dr.  Adams  drew  Irving  to  one  side,  and  said,  in  the 
crispest  of  brittle  words  — "  Irving :  hum!  —  Know 
what 's  meant  by  blood-transfusion?  " 

Irving  searched  his  memory  — "  The  injection  of  salt 
water  into  the  veins,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  Tut,  tut,  tut !  "  snapped  the  other,  his  spectacles 
gleaming  in  his  intense,  but  fairly  well  controlled  ex- 
citement. "  I  mean  direct  transfusion,  young  man,  di- 
rect —  direct!  It  must  be  immediate,  or  never." 

Irving  caught  his  burning  sense  of  the  need  of  hurry. 
"  I  understand.  You  want  me  —  to  — ?  " 

"Exactly  so,  exactly  so!  We  want  some  of  your 
blood.  Will  you  give  it  to  that  young  rascal?  " 

Irving  exclaimed,  "  To  the  last  drop." 

"  You  're  our  man.  Quick !  All  my  youth  has  n't 
turned  white  in  my  hair ;  some  in  my  heart  yet !  You 
see  his  kind  of  life  —  Claude's  kind  —  does  n't  leave 
enough  blood  of  the  right  sort  in  one's  veins,  at  best. 
Young  man  —  I  know  you !  "  He  penetrated  Irving's 
soul  with  his  keen,  sword-like  gaze.  "  Young  man, 
your  blood  is  pure.  That 's  what  the  world  needs  — 
pure  blood.  Now !  " 

[  295  ] 


Something  Else 

Irving  bared  his  arm. 

"  What,  what,  what !  "  snapped  Dr.  Adams.  "  You 
don't  suppose  we  're  going  to  lop  that  off,  do  you? 
Nonsense !  Get  up  on  the  table.  Now,  gentlemen !  " 


[296] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  TORN   BANK    CHECK 

DO  you  understand  how  it 's  done ? "  Dr. 
Adams  asked  his  friend,  Mr.  Burl  —  that 
chum  of  his  school-days'  joys  and  man- 
hood's disillusions.  Contrary  to  the  precedent  of  ten 
years,  Mr.  Burl  had  suffered  himself  to  be  beguiled 
from  studio  and  club  to  the  home  off  Madison  Square. 
He  was  here  indefinitely ;  the  reason  —  he  suspected  that 
the  physician  felt  more  keenly  the  absence  of  Wini- 
fred, than  did  he  the  protracted  loneliness  of  his  own 
life. 

They  sat  in  the  Adams  smoking-room,  late  in  the 
evening.  Dinner  had  not  been  served,  nor  would  be, 
until  the  arrival  of  another  guest.  Dr.  Adams  felt 
that  the  absence  of  his  granddaughter  called  for  a 
change  of  administration;  he  had  moved  up  the  break- 
fast hour,  and  moved  back  the  dinner  hour,  to  show 
the  servant-world  that  life  was  not  what  it  had  been. 

The  Briarcliff  races  had  become  history  by  twelve 
o'clock.  All  during  that  warm  afternoon,  the  two 
hundred  thousand  who  had  gone  up  to  Westchester 
were  coming  back,  too  weary  to  seek  to  hide  utter 
fatigue,  now  that  the  goad  of  mad  excitement  no  longer 

[297] 


Something  Else 

pricked  them  to  vociferation.  Silent,  save  for  the  chug- 
ging of  their  machines,  they  coursed  down  country  roads, 
through  towns  and  villages;  they  crossed  the  Bronx, 
the  Harlem,  the  Hudson,  and  the  East  River.  Across 
the  Manhattan  streets  that  number  themselves  by  the 
hundred,  down  Fifth  Avenue  and  Broadway,  as  far  as 
the  City  Hall  Park,  came  Fashion  in  undress  parade. 
In  the  automobiles,  half-reclined  mothers  and  daughters, 
fast  asleep,  supported  by  drowsy  kinsmen,  while  the 
tumultuous  throbbing  of  the  city's  heart  fell  upon  dull 
ears. 

But  now  it  was  all  over.  Even  the  memory  of  it 
would  soon  be  banished  to  the  lumber-room  of  one's 
city-memory, —  a  room  to  which  one  seldom  has  time  to 
go,  to  inspect  paintless  and  broken  furniture  of  other 
days.  The  great  holiday  was  the  same  to  Dr.  Adams 
as  last  season's  outing  at  Far  Rockaway,  save  for  the 
incident  of  the  blood  infusion.  That  incident  promised 
perennial  interest. 

"You  understand,"  Dr.  Adams  said,  joining  his 
finger-tips,  and  looking  very  hard  at  Mr.  Burl,  to  pre- 
vent the  artist  from  losing  himself  in  a  reverie,  "  direct 
transfusion  is  dangerous,  on  account  of  possible  em- 
bolism. You  see,  hypodermoclysis  is  always  best,  un- 
less it 's  a  case  of  life  and  death.  In  that  case  —  are 
you  listening,  Chris  ?  —  then,  I  say,  then,  an  intravenous 
injection  should,  without  hesitation,  be  employed.  Are 
you  following  me,  Chris?  " 

"  I  'm  going  all  around  you,  Lew,"  returned  the  artist, 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  stroking  his  goatee, 

[298] 


A  Torn  Bank  Check 

with  exaggerated  seriousness.  "  I  can  hear  what  you 
say,  and  track  my  own  thoughts,  all  at  the  same  time. 
I  imagine  Sunbeam  '11  dance  when  she  hears  of  the  en- 
thusiasm her  '  Judas  Iscariot '  has  evoked.  I  'm  in- 
clined to  believe  she  shows  too  great  a  boldness  in  her 
work ;  she  's  naturally  so  strong-minded  and  independent, 
it  leaks  out  of  her  very  brush.  Still,  of  course,  Agos- 
tino  —  I  mean  Judas  —  would  lose  much  of  his  vil- 
lainous force,  in  a  pale  Burne-Jones  outline ;  but  — " 
Mr.  Burl  was  almost  pathetically  eager  to  heap  praises 
upon  Winifred,  while  seeming  to  hold  himself  severely 
critical. 

"  But,"  Dr.  Adams  interposed,  leaning  forward  to 
grasp  his  comrade's  knee,  the  better  to  enforce  attention, 
"  hospitals  were  erected  for  the  different  zones  of  the 
race-course,  so  I  had  no  trouble  getting  a  Mixter  tube. 
When  you  use  a  Mixter  tube,  Chris,  intima  is  in  con- 
tact with  intima  alone,  hence  you  get  rid  of  the  danger 
of  your  embolism  — " 

"  Don't  call  it  my  embolism,"  Mr.  Burl  growled,  im- 
patiently. 

"  When,"  resumed  the  physician,  zestfully,  "  we  had 
exposed  about  three-and-a-half  centimetres  of  the  radial 
artery,  and  the  same  amount  of  the  vein  was  freed,  we 
selected  a  cunnula,  pushed  the  vein  through  the  tube, 
turned  back  the  free  end  like  a  cuff — "  he  smacked 
his  lips  — "  like  a  cuff,  I  say,  snugly  tying  it  in  the 
groove." 

"  In  other  words,"  Mr.  Burl  snapped,  waving  his 
pipe  at  technicality,  "  you  cut  open  Irving's  arm,  and 

[299] 


Something  Else 

Claude's  arm,  and  joined  the  vein  of  one  to  the  artery 
of  the  other." 

At  that  moment  Williams's  blue  eyes  and  bald  head 
appeared  at  the  door,  in  friendliest  non-butler  aspect, 
and  Irving  Payne,  the  expected  guest,  was  ushered  into 
the  room.  Dr.  Adams  nodded  him  to  a  chair,  and 
held  up  a  palm  to  push  back  any  possible  words  of 
greeting. 

"  Exactly  so,  exactly  so,"  he  said,  continuing  to 
fasten  Mr.  Burl  with  his  eye.  "  Then  we  removed  the 
clamps  from  the  vein,  and  from  the  artery.  At  first,  the 
vessels  contracted  rather  alarmingly,  but  a  warm  saline 
solution  restored  their  normal  condition.  We  let  in  the 
blood  of  the  donor  very  slowly,  very  slowly,  ve-ry 
slow-ly.  For  thirty-four  minutes  we  had  a  continuous 
flow.  By  that  time  the  recipient  was  rid  of  pale  facies, 
and  showed  the  pink  coloration  of  health.  In  a  word  the 
recipient  was  saved." 

"  Why  don't  you  call  him  Claude  Vandever?  "  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Burl,  who  would  rather  have  painted  blood, 
than  heard  about  it. 

"  At  the  same  time,"  the  physician  continued,  shaking 
the  other's  knee,  and  still  mechanically  waving  his 
palm  at  Irving,  to  check  interruption,  "  the  donor  — 
this  Irving  Payne,  if  you  please  —  showed  a  decided 
paleness  of  nose  and  ears,  and  coughed  incessantly." 

"  He  still  looks  rather  pale  about  the  gills,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Burl,  darting  a  glance  at  Irving  from  under 
bushy  eyebrows. 

Irving  laughed  pleasantly.  He  had  just  been  told 
[300] 


A  Torn  Bank  Check 

that  he  would  not  be  longer  needed  at  the  railroad  of- 
fice. There  is  nothing  like  losing  a  position,  to  test 
one's  cheerful  philosophy.  He  said,  "  I  '11  make  up  for 
some  of  my  lost  blood  at  your  dinner,  Dr.  Adams." 
What  was  the  use  to  bother  them  with  his  misfortune? 

"  Yes,"  Dr.  Adams  nodded.  "  And  I  suspect  the 
multimillionaire,  J.  S.  Vandever,  will  help.  I  had  a 
note  from  him  asking  where  he  could  lay  hands  on  you, 
and  I  sent  him  word  you  were  living  with  me.  Now, 
don't  say  a  word, —  it 's  real  charity  for  you  and  Chris 
to  help  me  fill  up  this  awfully  lonesome  house.  Chris 
must  change  his  studio  for  Winifred's,  and  you  must 
give  up  your  culinary  practices  to  make  me  cheerful  at 
my  table.  If  you  two  won't  consent,  you  '11  see  me 
stepping  over  to  Rome,  some  fine  morning,  to  join  Wini- 
fred. Then,  where  would  my  office-practice  be  ?  " 

This  was  a  most  amazing  proposal,  and  it  took  away 
all  the  breath  that  had  been  left  Irving  on  being  turned 
out  of  the  railroad  office.  He  was  still  speechless  and 
undecided,  when  Williams  reappeared  with  J.  S.  Van- 
dever's  card. 

"  You  can  decide  about  me  later,"  said  Dr.  Adams, 
"  but  it  would  never  do  to  keep  the  great  J.  S.  Van- 
dever waiting  a  minute.  Follow  Williams,  and  behold 
him  in  the  flesh.  He  's  come  to  talk  business  with  you, 
and  remember  he  's  one  of  the  richest  men  on  earth.  I 
don't  know  what  property  he  holds  in  Heaven." 

"  Oh,  his  wife  has  a  house  there,"  growled  Mr.  Burl, 
seeming  not  to  observe  Irving's  surprise  at  the  visit. 
"  Maybe  Saint  Peter  '11  let  him  into  it.  I  understand 

[301] 


Something  Else 

it 's  a  home  for  cats.  Eh,  Lew?  You  ought  to  know; 
you  mix  with  that  class." 

"  I  do  not  mix,  I  mingle,"  the  other  amended. 
When  Irving  had  gone  away  with  Williams  who,  for 
the  occasion,  was  a  butler  indeed,  he  resumed :  "  Chris, 
what  do  you  think  of  the  boy?  " 

The  artist  stared  into  the  fire,  letting  his  pipe  go 
out.  "What  do  I  think?  Of  —  what  part  of  him, 
Lew?  He's  a  miser  and  spendthrift,  he's  frivolous 
and  in  earnest,  he  's  an  arrant  democrat,  and  an  inborn 
aristocrat,  he  's  reckless,  yet  virtuous.  He 's  not  a 
type.  He  's  just  Irving  Payne." 

Then  his  voice  sank  lower,  and  he  leaned  toward  his 
friend  significantly.  "  Do  you  know,  Lew,  I  had  a 
suspicion,  once,  that  he  'd  got  an  inkling  of  his  family 
history?  But  he  had  n't.  He  's  completely  in  the  dark. 
Do  you  suppose  he  can  always  be  kept  so  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  Nobody  knows  the  truth  of  the  matter 
but  you  and  me  and  — " 

"  I  went  so  far,"  Mr.  Burl  whispered,  "  as  to  paint 
Mrs.  Vandever's  picture,  just  to  startle  him  into  a  con- 
fession of  his  knowledge.  But  he  knew  nothing  to  be- 
tray. And  what  safeguards  him  more  than  anything 
else  is  that  he  thinks  he  already  knows  the  main  facts. 
So  he  's  not  digging  up  buried  connections." 

"  Humph !  So  much  the  better,"  returned  the  physi- 
cian. "  He  thinks  his  mother  dead,  his  father  dead : 
so  much  the  better.  You  say  he  's  not  a  type.  Who 
is?  No  man  can  stand  for  more  than  himself.  But  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  is  to  be  the  final  outcome  of 

[302] 


A  Torn  Bank  Check 

our  young  friend.  What  '11  be  the  net  product? 
What 's  the  value  of  him?  " 

"  I  only  know,"  came  slowly,  "  that  many  a  night 
he  's  chased  away  the  blue  devils  that  threatened  to  claim 
my  soul.  He  blunders  along  quite  happily  through  the 
mazes  of  his  ancestry,  he  gropes  here  and  there  in  blind- 
ness, and,  it  seems  to  me,  he  leaves  everything  he  touches 
a  little  lighter,  a  little  sweeter  for  his  passing.  Really, 
Doctor  — "  He  never  called  Lewis  Adams  "  Doctor  " 
unless  moved  to  most  serious  speech,  "  I  can't  persuade 
myself  that  he  ought  not  to  be!  He  used  to  lack  di- 
rection, but  I  am  convinced  there  's  a  change ;  he  seems 
flowing  along  toward  some  definite  sea  of  success." 

He  arose,  and  began  pacing  the  floor,  as  if  it  were 
that  of  his  studio.  "  One  thing  —  I  used  to  ask  myself 
toward  what  outlet  I  was  drifting.  I  told  myself,  it  was 
just  stellar  space.  And  that  beyond  that  was  just  — 
vacuum ;  and  beyond  that  vacuum  was  —  nothing." 

Dr.  Adams  propounded :  "  Is  not  a  vacuum  neces- 
sarily bounded  on  all  sides?  How  can  the  nothingness 
of  death  exist,  except  between  the  somethingness  of  life, 
and  the  somethingness  of  eternity?  Ah,  Chris,  I  am 
aware  of  your  old  doubtings.  But  as  for  me,  I  need 
only  look  into  Sunbeam's  face,  and  feel  the  warmth  of 
her  lips  on  my  brow,  to  know  that  Sunbeams  come  from 
afar,  and  therefore  do  not  belong  to  this  world." 

Mr.  Burl  nodded  thoughtfully.  "  Irving  Payne  has 
done  a  good  deal  to  bring  me  around,"  he  admitted ;  "  I 
mean,  in  my  reflecting  upon  his  birth,  his  strange  history, 
his  possible  destiny.  I  am  led  to  feel  — "  he  waved  his 

[303] 


Something  Else 

dead  pipe  at  the  universe  — "  that  this  is  not  enough." 
Then  in  entire  unconsciousness,  he  used  the  catch  words 
of  the  populace  — "  There  must  be  something  else !  " 

In  the  meantime,  Irving  had  been  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  the  great  J.  S.  Vandever.  The  clean-shaven 
lips  and  chin  of  the  financier  revealed  determination ;  the 
white  side-whiskers  suggested  aggressiveness ;  the  high, 
pale  forehead  spoke  of  swift  and  profound  intelligence ; 
and  the  eyes,  rather  small,  but  piercingly  bright,  indi- 
cated a  restless  nature  that  was  wont  to  sweep  to  vital 
decision  without  the  loss  of  a  moment. 

J.  S.  Vandever  spoke  rapidly.  "  Dr.  Adams  was 
good  enough  to  insure  my  meeting  you  here,  Mr.  Payne. 
This  morning  you  saved  the  life  of  my  step-son.  I  have 
come  to  express  our  appreciation,  and  when  he  is  well 
enough,  you  '11  come  to  see  him,  I  'm  sure." 

"  With  pleasure.  But  I  did  nothing,"  said  Irving 
lightly.  "  Almost  any  young  fellow  would  have  given 
him  some  surplus  corpuscles.  I  still  have  all  I  need." 

Mr.  Vandever  was  astonished.  That  anybody  should 
make  light  of  a  service  done  him,  or  his  family,  was  un- 
precedented. There  is  nothing  for  which  one  has  to 
pay  so  heavily,  as  being  rich.  "  I  have  a  board-meeting 
to  attend,"  said  the  director  of  vast  enterprises,  looking 
at  his  watch,  and  thinking,  "  I  wonder  what  the  young 
man  wants?"  He  repeated,  "A  board  meeting!" 

Then  he  resumed  his  brisk  tones :  "  Well,  Mr.  Payne, 
as  I  said,  we  deeply  appreciate  your  invaluable  service  — 
your  kindness  —  Dr.  Adams  tells  me  you  certainly  saved 
Claude's  life,  and  it 's  with  great  pleasure  that  I  've 

[304] 


A  Torn  Bank  Check 

made  out  this  check  —  er  —  I  'm  not  asking  you  to  take 
it—" 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you !  "  cried  Irving  heartily,  pre- 
tending to  misunderstand,  and  laughing  with  real  enjoy- 
ment at  his  diplomacy.  "  I  appreciate  that,  because 
Claude  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  besides,  of  course  I  'm 
not  selling  blood." 

Mr.  Vandever  was  amazed  at  being  interrupted,  and 
bewildered  at  finding  that  the  young  man  lacked  the  usual 
signs  of  one  trying  to  get  all  he  could  out  of  him.  "  I 
was  about  to  say,"  he  interposed,  "  that  I  don't  ask  you 
to  take  this  check  as  an  adequate  recompense ;  it  is  by  no 
means  a  price  of  your  blood.  Yet,  in  a  way,  has  not 
everything  its  price?  I  am  informed  that  you  receive 
something  less  than  a  hundred  a  month  — " 

"  Exactly  a  hundred  less,  just  at  present,"  said  Ir- 
ving, smiling  again. 

"Ha?  Hum!  Er  —  this  check  —  you  do  not  ask 
how  much  it  is  —  ought  to  be  a  substantial  aid  in  putting 
you  higher  in  the  business  world."  He  extended  the 
oblong  slip  in  one  hand,  as  he  held  his  watch  in  the  other. 

"  But  I  can't  take  it,"  said  Irving,  with  friendliest 
resolution.  "  It  would  be  like  selling  my  good  opinion 
of  myself."  He  gave  his  short  laugh.  "  It 's  just  about 
all  I  have,"  he  added,  "  and  I  don't  mean  to  part  with 
that .  Well,  you  missed  the  races.  They  were  great ! 
But  you  're  a  busier  man  than  I  am,  Mr.  Vandever.  I 
never  have  trouble  getting  off.  Sometimes,  though," 
he  added,  ruefully,  "  it 's  hard  to  get  back  on." 

J.  S.  Vandever  slowly  tore  up  the  check.  He  con- 
20  [  305  ] 


Something  Else 

tinued  to  look  at  Irving,  with  a  curious  expression  in 
his  ever-alert  face.  Suddenly  he  threw  back  his  mas- 
sive head,  and  took  in  a  long  breath,  as  if  there  had  been 
wafted  toward  him  some  forgotten  fragrance  of  far- 
away childhood-land,  with  its  play  gardens  and  mossy 
orchard.  Then  he  extended  the  hand  that  had  cast 
away  the  check-fragments.  "  Will  you  take  this?  "  he 
said,  crisply.  Irving  took  the  suing  hand,  and  seemed 
to  feel  something  better  than  the  touch  of  millions. 

"  I  wish  I  could  stop  and  chat  with  you,  and  —  get 
to  know  you,"  said  the  great  J.  S.  Vandever,  with  evi- 
dent sincerity.  "  But  I  'm  bound  hand  and  foot  to 
tyrannous  old  Father  Time.  And  there  's  that  con- 
founded board-meeting.  You  refuse  to  accept  your 
due;  very  well  —  will  you  earn  it?  Mind  you,  young 
man,  no  more  gifts  come  from  me,  after  the  insult  to 
my  check.  But  if  you  want  work,  hard  and  exacting  — 
work  that  will  call  for  every  fibre  of  your  brain,  but  not 
all  your  soul,  I  hope  —  work  that  will  lift  you  up,  if 
you  cling  to  it  —  work  that  will  enable  you,  after  some 
years,  to  get  your  grip  on  the  pulse  of  affairs  —  I 
say,  if  you  want  that  sort  of  thing,  call  at  my  office  on 
—  let  me  see  —  hum!  —  two  weeks  from  this  day.  I  '11 
not  offer  you  something  light  and  easy.  Whoever 
works  for  me  has  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it.  Judge 
whether  you  think  it  '11  pay,  before  you  begin.  If  you 
begin,  I  believe  I  can  depend  on  you  to  swing  to  it. 
Good-day.  No,  don't  answer  yet.  No ;  have  n't  time 
to  see  the  doctor.  Good-day."  And  it  was  Good-day. 
For  when  J.  S.  Vandever  said  "  Good-day,"  he  meant  it. 

[306] 


CHAPTER  XX 

JERRYMANDERING 

THE  note  calling  Irving  to  Claude  Vandever's 
bedside  was  brought  in  a  carriage  bearing  the 
pleasing  fiction  of  a  coat-of-arms,  and  was  de- 
livered by  a  man  in  servile  uniform.     Irving  took  de- 
light  in    the    coat-of-arms;   he   drank   in   the   liveried 
splendor  of  the  footman  as  a  stimulating  draught ;  and, 
as  the  wheels  rolled  into  that  discreet  world  bounded  by 
Madison   and  Fifth  Avenues   and   Fiftieth   Street   and 
Carnegie  Hill,  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  at  last,  to  the 
home  of  his  dreams. 

Since  losing  his  position  as  day-clerk  in  the  sky- 
scraper, he  had  been  indefatigable  in  his  efforts  to  find 
work.  The  best  thing  discoverable,  so  far,  was  a  seat 
at  a  billing-desk  in  another  railroad  office.  The  pay 
was  determined  by  the  number  of  bills  stamped,  and  that 
depended  upon  one's  proficiency  with  the  typewriter. 
By  working  at  high  pressure  from  six  p.  M.  to  one  or 
two  in  the  morning,  Irving  found  he  could  make  about 
$1.97  a  day.  The  work  was  so  hard,  and  the  prospect 
of  advancement  so  disproportioned  to  the  wear  and  tear 
upon  one's  nervous  force,  that  Irving  was  all  the  time 
looking  forward  to  the  day  appointed  by  J.  S.  Van- 
dever. 

[307] 


Something  Else 

From  all  he  had  heard  of  the  great  financier's 
methods,  hours  in  his  offices,  while  not  so  long  as  at  the 
railroad  office,  would  prove  more  exhausting.  But  the 
exhaustion  that  attends  one's  efforts  toward  definite  suc- 
cess is  accompanied  by  revivifying  hope.  It  is  very 
different  when  one  wearily  creeps  into  bed  at  two  in  the 
morning,  with  all  forces  played  out  at  bill-stamping, 
conscious  that  there  is  nothing  ahead  but  the  stamping 
of  bills,  on  the  morrow. 

On  this  particular  day,  Irving-  gladly  relinquished 
the  prospect  of  earning  his  $1.97,  as  he  leaned  back 
blissfully  in  the  Vandever  carriage.  J.  S.  Vandever's  ap- 
pointment almost  assured  him  of  independence ;  the  car- 
riage lent  a  temporary  magnificence. 

At  last  he  stood  before  the  Vandever  mansion  as  an  in- 
vited guest,  clad,  one  might  almost  say,  in  his  all.  It 
was  a  veritable  palace,  this  immense  pile.  If  it  wanted  * 
the  historic  atmosphere  of  centuries-old  Europe,  it  was, 
on  the  other  hand,  free  from  the  mildew  age  bequeaths 
to  birth.  Truly  one  found  none  of  that  picturesque  ef- 
fect whose  charm  is  attended  by  dampness  of  brick  walls 
and  draughtiness  of  mouldering  stone.  Everything  was 
new.  The  polished  steel  gates  promised,  with  their 
hard  radiance,  that  one  would  find  in  them  no  sheltering 
of  disease-germs.  Behind  the  gates,  the  huge  doors  and 
the  barred  windows  on  either  side  had  the  look  of  newly 
made  defence  for  newly  made  fortunes. 

As  Irving  was  passed  from  one  footman  to  another, 
then  to  the  head  butler,  he  took  swift  note  of  the  marble 
stairway  in  the  centre  of  the  vast  hall,  of  the  great  fire- 

[308] 


Jerrymandering 

place  beneath,  of  the  dome-shaped  ceiling,  the  tapestries 
and  pictures.  As  he  ascended  one  staircase  after  an- 
other, his  soul  became  steeped  in  the  refined  luxury 
visible  on  every  hand.  Ascending  thus,  he  seemed  climb- 
ing to  life's  apex.  All  was  so  high  above  the  plane  of 
his  daily  living,  that  when  he  thought  of  the  cold  smells 
of  Gotham  Repose, —  a  recollection  to  which  he  would 
have  forbidden  the  entree  had  he  been  master  of  his 
thoughts, —  he  grew  dizzy,  as  if  peeping  down  at 
ordinary  existence  from  a  sheer  precipice.  The  light 
which  the  stained  windows  glorified,  streamed  over  ex- 
quisite statuary  at  the  landings,  over  thick  carpets,  and 
frescoed  walls  of  splendid  corridors. 

What  a  setting  for  one's  hours  of  easel  Irving  felt 
a  tingling  of  the  blood;  he  seemed  breathing  strength 
of  nobility  from  the  very  beauty  of  things.  If  it  were 
permitted  him  to  dwell  amid  such  surroundings,  should 
he  not  be  inspired  to  make  a  mighty  impact  upon  the 
world?  His  old  nature  reasserted  itself,  as  it  had  not 
since  his  last  conversation  with  Winifred.  He  found 
yearning  desires  for  the  beautiful  and  for  the  transitory 
gayety  of  mad  hours,  coming  to  life.  Not  only  did 
work  at  the  billing-desk  suddenly  seem  hateful,  but  pros- 
spects  of  hard  labor  in  the  captivity  of  J.  S.  Vandever 
lost  its  appeal.  Any  sort  of  labor  appeared  repugnant. 
Any  kind  of  privation  became  despicable.  Here  was 
real  life,  here,  within  his  reach.  He  had  once  told  Mr. 
Burl  that  this  was  what  he  was  for.  Perhaps  the 
thought  lacked  elegance  of  form,  but  certainly  not  of 
imagination. 

[309] 


Something  Else 

He  found  Claude  in  bed,  weak  and  pale,  but  so  eager 
to  express  his  gratitude  that  he  could  not  delay  its  ex- 
pression. The  young  heir  of  fortune  gave  the  penni- 
less clerk  a  smile  so  kind  that  it  humanized  the  richest 
details  of  the  palatial  residence.  The  old  fancy  he  had 
taken  to  Irving  had  naturally  been  deepened  and  made 
tender  by  the  musings  of  the  invalid.  He  held  out  his 
arm.  "  I  am  here,  because  you  were  there"  he  said,  in 
a  voice  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

"  He  is  not  to  talk,"  interposed  Mrs.  Vandever,  who 
was  hovering  over  the  pillow  without  touching  her  son's 
head.  She  came  to  Irving,  with  outstretched  hand. 
"  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  come.  I  must  talk  for 
Claude,"  she  continued,  seating  herself  on  the  side  of 
the  bed,  that  she  might  hold  the  invalid's  hand.  "  If  I 
say  anything  to  displease  you  —  well,  you  must  blame 
Claude." 

"  You  could  n't  say  a  word  to  displease  me,"  said 
Irving,  delighting  in  the  little  picture  of  mother-love, 
"  because  I  know  you  would  n't  refer  to  that  bit  of 
surgery." 

Mrs.  Vandever  hesitated.  "  But,"  she  said,  looking 
at  Irving  understandingly,  "  that  is  principally  what 
Claude  wanted  me  to  talk  about.  Very  well,"  she  added 
hastily,  moved  by  the  other's  discomposure,  "  then  I 
won't.  We  '11  go  at  once  to  the  next  point,  the  less 
important  one  —  you  must  let  me  call  it  that.  For- 
give us  for  being  abrupt,  but  the  doctor  would  only 
allow  Claude  a  few  moments.  Claude  wants  to  ask  if 

[  310  ] 


Jerrymandering 

you  are  bound  in  any  business  —  he  means,  unalterably 
connected." 

Irving  smiled.  "  I  'm  entirely  loose,  at  present," 
he  assured  them. 

"  Good !  "  whispered  Claude. 

Mrs.  Vandever  rested  her  hand  upon  his  too-eager 
lips.  "  Let  me  talk,  dear,"  she  said  gently.  She  turned 
to  Irving:  "  Claude  has  set  his  heart  upon  having  you 
for  his  social  secretary.  He  has  long  needed  one,  but 
has  never  been  able  to  find  the  congenial  friend,  such  as 
one  needs  in  that  relationship.  But  he  tells  me  that 
from  the  first  moment  of  meeting  you,  he  has  felt  other- 
wise toward  you  than  toward  any  other  young  man. 
He  believes  you  understand  him,  and  could  do  him  in- 
estimable service." 

Irving  smiled,  and  was  about  to  speak  when  the  other 
spared  him  the  trouble.  "  We  know  how  you  regard 
Claude ;  you  've  proved  that.  And  I  can  read  your 
thought  —  that  we  are  taking  this  means  of  trying  to 
reward  you  for  an  act  that  could  never  be  properly 
rewarded.  But  you  are  mistaken.  Claude  is  really  de- 
termined to  employ  a  social  secretary.  Only,  in  your 
case,  it  would  be  not  only  a  business  relationship,  but 
one  of  friends.  To  show  you  that  it  is  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness ; — "  She  mentioned  a  salary  that  inwardly  took 
Irving's  breath  away ;  outwardly  he  was  calm  —  it  was 
a  sort  of  inward  bleeding  of  the  breath,  unmanifested. 

"  Do !  "  said  Claude,  trying  to  make  up  by  force  of 
gaze  for  weakness  of  voice.  "  Do,  do  accept !  " 

[311] 


Something  Else 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Irving,  hesitatingly,  "  I  am  prac- 
tically out  of  work.  But  Mr.  Vandever  has  offered  to 
talk  over  something  with  me,  in  a  week  or  so.  I  think 
it 's  his  intention  to  give  me  a  place  of  some  sort.  And 
I  never  had  any  experience  as  a  social  secretary.  My 
social  functions  have  been  —  well  —  out  there  — "  He 
waved  his  arm,  to  indicate  a  region  beyond  the  farther- 
most range  of  the  Vandever  vision.  "  I  have  only  dealt 
with  society  in  the  bulk,  you  understand." 

"  Mr.  Vandever  told  me  he  had  spoken  to  you,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Vandever,  wistfully,  "  but  I  don't  want  him 
to  take  you  away  from  us  —  from  Claude.  I  told  him 
so,  and  he  said  you  should  make  your  own  choice.  Mr. 
Vandever  is  a  very  hard  master,  Mr.  Payne  —  he  would 
be  the  first  to  admit  it ;  he  takes  a  sort  of  pride  in  his 
inflexibility.  In  Claude,  you  would  have  a  friend,  a 
companion.  We  're  not  afraid  of  your  ignorance  of 
society.  I  imagine  you  know  about  as  much  of  it  as  I 
do.  We  are  considered  *  exclusive  ' ;  but  in  shutting  out 
people,  one  always  has  to  shut  oneself  in  with  others 
who  are  not  congenial.  Besides,  your  duties  would,  in 
the  main,  be  limited  to  correspondence.  At  any  rate 
don't  refuse  the  position  now.  Let  Claude  think  you 
may  accept  —  he  's  so  restless,  it  keeps  him  ill." 

"  Yes,  I  may  accept,"  said  Irving.  "  It 's  so  unex- 
pected, and  so  out  of  my  line,  you  know ;  but  I  may  try 
it."  Their  faces  suggested  that  he  had  conferred  a 
favor.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  begged  to 
accept  a  princely  income  for  nothing  more  laborious 

[312] 


Jerrymandering 

than  letter-writing.  Such  a  time  would  probably  never 
come  again.  He  realized  that  perfectly,  and  yet  was  not 
satisfied.  Why?  He  hardly  knew.  It  seemed  like  a 
fairy-work  of  good  chance.  But  was  there  a  flaw  some- 
where? 

In  a  week,  Claude  would  be  strong  enough,  if  all  went 
well,  to  explain  the  duties  of  the  unaccepted  and  unre- 
fused  position.  A  compromise  was  effected.  On  Sat- 
urday, Irving  should  return,  should  be  instructed  in  all 
the  details  of  office,  and  then,  being  better  able  to  judge 
should  make  his  final  choice  between  Claude  Vandever 
and  Claude's  step-father. 

Irving  went  away  wondering  at  Claude's  open  show  of 
friendship.  To  be  sure,  he  had  a  warm  feeling  of 
friendliness  for  Claude  that  amounted  to  something  like 
affection ;  but  there  was  nothing  strange  in  that ;  Irving 
usually  liked  people.  That  was  his  way,  he  told  himself. 
But  that  young  Vandever  should  have  taken  a  fancy  to 
some  one  quite  outside  the  circumference  of  his  brilliant 
world  —  was  that  to  be  explained  by  the  "  bit  of 
surgery  "  ? 

Fortunately  it  did  not  need  to  be  explained.  Some- 
thing more  important  was  calling  for  decision :  Should 
he  become  Claude's  social  secretary?  He  resolved  to 
banish  the  problem  until  Saturday.  But  on  the  follow- 
ing days,  his  shoulders,  bent  over  the  billing-desk, 
brought  the  fancy  of  bending  over  an  escritoire.  Nor 
was  another  reflection  wanting,  more  appealing  than  all 
else:  a  secretaryship  necessitated  propinquity  with 

[313] 


Something  Else 

Claude;  and  propinquity  with  Claude  carried  with  it 
the  corollary  of  nearness  to  Claude's  step-sister.  O, 
Jerry !  What  will  you  say  to  all  this  ? 

We  shall  see  what  Jerry  says,  and  at  a  day  no  later 
than  the  Saturday  in  question.  For  when  Irving  was 
ushered  into  Claude's  room,  the  invalid  was  still  obliged 
to  husband  his  strength,  in  order  to  add  its  interest  to 
the  strength  of  succeeding  days,  thus  to  reach  perfect 
health  by  a  series  of  partial  payments.  In  order,  there- 
fore, to  spare  Claude,  here  is  our  young  friend  Jerry, 
whom  no  school,  apparently,  is  able  to  hold  inured  in 
cells  of  learning. 

She  was  the  same  Jerry ;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  every 
instant  different.  She  was  a  tingling  flesh-and-blood 
manifestation  of  electric  force.  In  contact  with  her 
vibrating  personality,  indifference  was  impossible.  One 
might  be  shocked,  or  thrilled,  according  to  susceptibility 
of  dynamic  force. 

"  It  is  n't  good  for  Claude  to  talk  a  great  deal,  even 
yet,"  she  explained,  "  so  I  'm  to  help.  He  is  simply 
determined  to  keep  you  as  his  social  secretary.  I  want 
you  to  consent,  Mr.  Payne.  I  want  you  so  much !  I  'm 
going  to  be  as  nice  to  you  as  I  can  be,  and  make  the  work 
seem  as  interesting  as  possible,  so  you  '11  like  it.  And 
we  'd  all  see  each  other  so  often,  you  know  —  not  have 
to  wait  for  a  Briarcliff  race  to  bring  us  together.  I 
don't  believe  you  like  us  as  much  as  we  do  you  — "  how 
her  eyes  of  gray  scintillated !  — "  or  you  would  n't  have 
to  be  given  so  much  time  to  make  up  your  mind.  I  want 

[314] 


Jerrymandering 

you  so  very  much,  Mr.  Payne.     You  understand,  I  am 
saying  all  this  for  Claude  — " 

"  I  believe  you  've  said  enough  on  that  point,"  inter- 
posed Claude,  from  his  couch. 

Jerry  looked  thoughtfully  at  Irving.  "  Well,  per- 
haps I  have,"  she  said,  gravely. 

To  Irving  it  was  like  a  play.  Would  it  not  be  pleas- 
ant to  receive  a  princely  salary  for  work  that  was  exactly 
like  a  comedy?  Of  course,  as  he  sat  at  the  writing 
desk,  as  now,  he  could  not  always,  as  now,  expect 
to  find  Jerry  seated  upon  the  floor  at  his  feet,  with  her 
lap  full  of  letters,  and  the  floor  around  her  covered  with 
notes.  Claude  kept  his  eyes  upon  them.  Once  Mrs. 
Vandever  entered,  and  departed  smilingly.  A  trained 
nurse  sat  reading  at  a  distant  window,  discreet,  im- 
personal. Jerry,  however,  was  everything. 

Jerry  tore  open  a  letter,  then  looked  up.  She  caught 
Irving's  gaze,  and  her  face  flashed  its  white  light,  half 
smile,  half  intelligence.  "  Notice,"  she  said,  "  that  the 
letters  I  put  in  this  pile  — "  She  placed  the  missive  at 
the  exact  tip  of  the  slipper  that  showed  itself  from  under 
the  adorable  fan-like  skirt,  no  doubt  for  that  very  pur- 
pose — "  are  asking  for  something.  You  will  re- 
fuse all  they  ask,  and  say  how  sorry  you  are." 

"Without  discrimination?"  Irving  asked,  looking 
very  hard,  either  at  the  letter,  or  at  the  little  foot  fully 
revealed  in  its  open-work  slipper. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jerry.  "  People  are  always  wanting 
something." 

[315] 


Something  Else 

"  And  that 's  true  enough,"  Irving  agreed,  making  the 
dangerous  experiment  of  trying  to  see  to  the  bottom  of 
her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Jerry,  divining  his  intention,  and 
holding  up  her  eyes,  to  make  it  easy  for  him.  She  held 
them  thus  distractingly  open,  as  she  continued :  "  It 
would  take  all  Claude's  time,  you  see,  to  find  out  who 
deserves  help,  and  who  does  n't.  It  would  keep  him  al- 
ways visiting  church-committees,  and  organized  chari- 
ties, and  poor  people's  rooms,  where  there  are  all  kinds 
of  contagious  diseases."  With  chin  tilted  up,  she  let 
the  glory  of  her  eyes  envelop  him,  till  his  eyes  fled  for 
safety.  Then  she  opened  another  letter,  and  laid  it  upon 
the  first ;  a  third  followed  the  second ;  then  a  fourth.  So 
many  people  wanted  something! 

"  Now !  Here 's  something  different,"  she  said, 
presently,  in  a  brisk  tone.  "  It 's  from  Mrs.  Hoyt,  one 
of  Claude's  set."  Irving  remembered  Mrs.  Hoyt;  it 
was  she  who  had  accompanied  Mrs.  Vandever  to  the  di- 
vorce court;  the  lady  whose  face  suggested  the  horse- 
woman. Jerry  had  become  serious,  as  one  needs  must, 
who  seeks  to  define  social  distinctions.  Irving  found  her 
gravity  as  wonderful  as  her  smile.  Her  thoughts  seemed 
to  move  just  beneath  the  texture  of  her  forehead,  chang- 
ing her  features  with  that  white  light,  as  they  darted  to 
the  outlet  of  speech.  As  it  chanced,  she  held  her  mouth 
in  such  a  light  that  the  young  man  could  see  the  play  of 
her  lips  to  best  advantage.  She  was  very  kind  to  him. 

She  went  on :  "  Mrs.  Hoyt's  is  n't  exactly  Lady  Van- 
dever's  set,  but  her  set  and  Claude's  overlap.  I  '11  make 

[316] 


Jerrymandering 

you  a  list  of  hers  and  of  his,  and  draw  a  circle  about 
those  that  are  common  to  both;  like  synonyms,  you 
know.  Forgive  me  for  being  rather  learned;  I  hope 
you  won't  find  it  dull.  Mrs.  Hoyt  loves  horses,  and 
Lady  Vandever  prefers  cats.  But  it  is  n't  a  difference 
of  animals.  Lady  Vandever's  set  go  in  for  Browning 
and  Prisoners  and  Souls.  You  might  go  on  the  princi- 
ple that  Mrs.  Hoyt's  crowd  —  Claude's  crowd  —  are 
more  fun.  So  these  letters,  in  t his  pile  — "  Much  as 
she  may  have  regretted  it,  she  was  obliged  to  extend  her 
foot,  in  order  to  reveal  the  high  heel;  at  a  tangent 
to  this  interesting  heel,  she  placed  the  epistle.  "  In 
this  pile  are  the  Hoyts'  people.  You  answer  them  in  a 
chummy,  slangy  kind  of  way.  The  Lady  Vandever 
letters  —  I  don't  know  where  I  can  put  them  —  are  to  be 
answered  as  if  you  were  obliged  to  break  the  ice  to  get 
to  the  ink.  Oh,  you  will  be  so  polite,  suggesting  that 
your  politeness  had  been  carefully  revised,  like  a  manu- 
script !  " 

"  I  understand." 

"  Do  you  ?  Oh,  I  thought  perhaps  you  had  n't  di- 
rect communication  from  Mars." 

"  We  have  wireless." 

Jerry  laughed.  Then  she  held  up  a  letter,  allowing 
her  sleeve  to  fall  back,  thus  revealing  a  charming  vista 
of  dazzling  white.  Her  arm  was  rather  thin  and  sinewy, 
suggesting  the  gymnasium  rather  than  the  boudoir,  but 
it  appealed  to  Irving  more  intimately  than  if  it  had 
possessed  the  rounded  curves  of  maturity.  It  suggested 
to  his  fanciful  mind  that  she  was  still  clinging  to  the 

[317] 


Something  Else 

illusions  of  youth,  this  Jerry,  who  was  in  reality  so 
knowing.  "  When  you  get  a  letter  like  this,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  you  throw  it  into  the  waste-basket,  without 
opening  it." 

Claude  spoke  up,  languidly.     "  Who  's  it  from?  " 

Jerry  looked  toward  the  couch,  showing  her  pearly 
teeth:  "Beauty." 

Claude  suddenly  manifested  animation.  "  Oh,  hang 
it,  yes !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Are  they  still  coming?  By 
Jove!" 

"  I  believe,"  said  Jerry,  industriously  sorting  the  let- 
ters, "  that  there  are  a  good  many  chorus-girls  on  Mars  ? 
It  must  be  jolly  to  have  nothing  to  live  up  to.  I  do  as 
I  please ;  but  that 's  so  normal,  it 's  uninteresting.  Be- 
sides, I  'm  obliged  to  please  to  do  only  what  the  other 
girls  do.  Anyway,  this  summer,  I  mean  to  have  all 
the  fun  that 's  my  due,  before  I  'm  a  debutante.  We  're 
going  to  the  Catskills,  as  of  course  you  will;  for  social 
secretaries  are  indispensable  at  the  Catskills.  Then 
we  '11  go  to  Saratoga,  I  guess,  you  and  Claude  and  I. 
I  '11  only  be  a  girl,  till  I  've  set  out ;  but  I  mean  to  be 
just  as  killing  a  girl  as  possible." 

Irving  was  thrilled  with  these  glorious  prospects. 
Would  he  go?  Why  not?  "I  think  you  can  begin 
counting  corpses,"  he  exclaimed,  a  little  dizzily. 

"  Then  you  agree?  "  cried  Jerry  quickly.  "  You 
accept  the  position  ?  Please !  "  She  opened  her  eyes 
to  their  most  dangerous  extent.  "  Please!  " 

"  Jerry,"  said  Claude,  "  come  here  a  moment.  If 
[318] 


Jerrymandering 

Knickerbocker  '11  excuse  me,  I  want  to  communicate  a 
thought  in  your  ear." 

Jerry  held  up  her  slim  hands  to  Irving.  "  Will  you 
lift  me  up?" 

After  she  had  gone  to  the  bedside,  Irving  still  felt 
the  pressure  that  her  weight  had  thrown  upon  his  hands. 
In  a  way,  it  was  a  pleasure  for  him  to  witness  the  per- 
fect understanding  that  seemed  to  exist  between  Claude 
and  his  step-sister.  But  it  was  not  the  pleasure  he  had 
discovered  in  the  affection  of  Claude  and  Mrs.  Vande- 
ver.  As  Claude  placed  his  hand  upon  the  dark  head, 
to  draw  it  nearer  his  lips,  Irving  could  not  but  reflect 
that,  after  all,  those  two  were  unrelated  by  ties  of 
blood.  He  even  felt  a  little  pang,  he  who  had  no  right 
to  pangs  on  Jerry's  account! 

He  might  have  felt  greater  uneasiness  had  he  caught 
the  words  that  elicited  silvery  laughter.  "  Look  here, 
Jerry,"  Claude  had  whispered,  "  none  of  your  tricks 
with  my  social  secretary;  none  of  your  Jerrymander- 
mgl  " 


[319] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IRVING   MAKES    HIS   DECISION 

IRVING  went  no  more  to  the  railroad  office,  he  no 
longer  baited  the  traps  which  he  had  set  in  so 
many  places  of  the  city-wilderness  for  the  catch- 
ing of  opportunities.  It  was  no  longer  a  matter  of 
finding  a  job,  but  of  deciding  as  to  which  one  he  would 
take. 

But  from  this,  it  is  not  to  be  inferred  that  the  young 
man  was  idle.  On  the  contrary,  the  days  and  nights 
following  his  last  appearance  at  the  billing-desk  were 
filled  with  busy  and  anxious  thoughts.  The  necessity 
of  making  his  choice  between  Claude  and  J.  S.  Vandever 
was  imperative,  and  was  fast  becoming  immediate.  He 
knew  that  when  he  had  once  made  his  choice,  he  would 
abide  by  it ;  he  understood  the  irreconcilable  divergence 
of  the  two  possible  courses ;  and  he  foresaw  that  which- 
ever one  he  accepted  would  regulate  all  his  after-life. 

Therefore  those  were  busy  days,  though  apparently 
he  did  nothing.  As  he  threaded  the  streets,  he  saw 
neither  men  nor  houses,  but  future  pleasure  and  achieve- 
ment. As  he  sat  alone  in  the  skylit  room,  whose  breath 
no  longer  whispered  of  Jessie,  it  might  be  that  the 
voice  of  Monsieur  du  Pays  would  climb  the  staircases 
and  the  carpeted  ladder,  lifted  upon  high  tenor  notes  to 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

the  very  roof.  But  they  did  not  ascend  to  the  peaks 
of  Irving's  exalted  meditations,  those  tenor  notes  of 
Monsieur  du  Pays,  he  whose  locks  were  so  bravely  blonde 
in  spite  of  envious  Time. 

As  a  general,  meditating  the  season's  campaign,  so 
brooded  Irving  over  his  campaign  of  life.  Should  he 
enter  the  lists  of  fashion  as  a  social  secretary,  such  mo- 
ments as  he  devoted  to  actual  work  would  be  mere  inter- 
stices in  the  day's  bright  hours  of  ease  and  pleasure. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  enrolled  under  the  great  finan- 
cier, he  must  either  find  pleasure  in  his  work,  or  eat  his 
bread  with  a  bitter  taste  in  his  mouth.  Under  Claude's 
banner,  he  would  be  led  into  gay  society ;  for  through  his 
veins  flowed  neither  yellow,  as  an  aristocrat  on  this  side 
the  water,  nor  blue,  as  on  the  other  side,  yet  he  pos- 
sessed the  social  temperament  which  is  as  essential  to 
success,  as  wealth  or  birth.  And  because  he  possessed 
this  genius  of  temperament  which  gives  to  one's  speech 
a  manner,  and  to  one's  ideas  a  sympathy,  that  makes 
one  always  desirable  —  for  that  very  reason,  Irving  felt 
impelled  to  accept  Claude's  offer. 

That  he  did  not  do  so  at  once,  showed  the  change  that 
had  come  over  him.  That  he  should  continue  to  hesi- 
tate could  have  surprised  no  one  more  than  the  Irving 
Payne  of  six  months  ago.  Those  dazzling  prospects 
with  which  he  had  so  often  entertained  himself  during 
drab-colored  hours,  those  gay  fancies  of  light  laughter, 
sparkling  smiles,  refined  elegancies,  with  which  he  may 
be  said  to  have  buttered  his  crusts  in  times  of  economy 
—  these  were,  as  by  a  miracle,  within  his  reach,  ready  to 

[  321  ] 


Something  Else 

be  materialized.  Not  only  within  his  reach;  there  was 
danger  that  they  might  be  actually  forced  upon  him. 
He  need  but  remain  passive,  hold  himself  receptive,  and 
Fortune  would  do  the  rest.  Fortune  was  so  determined 
to  seize  upon  him,  that  escape  would  require  active  re- 
sistance —  resistance  against  that  which  he  had  always 
most  ardently  desired. 

Claude  had  insisted;  Mrs.  Vandever  had  almost  en- 
treated ;  Jerry  had  opened  her  gray  eyes  to  their  widest 
allurement.  If  his  brief  interview  with  J.  S.  Vandever 
had  not  taken  place,  could  Irving  have  resisted  the 
temptation,  or  even  considered  resistance  a  virtue?  If 
chance  had  not  brought  father  Payne  a  new  tugboat, 
with  the  means  to  pay  off  the  mortgage,  might  not  re- 
sistance have  seemed  wrong,  if  but  for  the  sake  of  his 
foster-parents?  At  any  rate,  the  longer  Irving  con- 
sidered Claude's  offer,  the  clearer  it  appeared  to  him  in 
the  light  of  an  assiduous  temptation,  to  which  his  old 
nature  desired  to  succumb. 

But  within  him,  a  new  element  was  stirring  that  of- 
fered resistance  to  the  old  nature ;  and  this,  though  new, 
was  fast  growing  superior  in  strength.  Doubtless  the 
two-weeks'  inner  battle  did  more  than  anything  else  to 
develop  that  second  self. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  express  in  words  the  motives 
that  finally  determined  Irving.  Certainly  he  did  not 
himself  vocalize  his  arguments.  It  was  with  him  rather 
a  decision  of  feeling  than  of  logic.  If  he  became 
Claude's  social  secretary,  he  must  relinquish  everything 
in  life  which  he  had  formerly  depreciated,  but  now  re- 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

garded  paramount.  In  the  employ  of  J.  S.  Vandever, 
he  would  find  the  chance  to  develop  himself ;  to  bring  to 
the  highest  effectiveness,  every  inherent  capability.  One 
meant  a  lifetime  of  play,  the  other  of  work.  Which 
should  it  be? 

To  work  in  this  manner  would  mean  to  acquire  an 
intimate  understanding  of  vast  enterprises ;  and  with 
this  knowledge  would  come  the  power  to  act,  to  make  of 
oneself  a  factor  in  the  world's  achievement.  It  would 
be  a  lifelong  self-development,  a  never-ending  adven- 
ture with  one's  soul.  In  the  romances  of  old,  one  found 
excitement  in  the  clash  of  arms,  in  victory  over  great 
odds.  In  the  romance  of  these  most  modern  of  modern 
times,  one's  blood  was  none  the  less  thrilled  by  the  clash- 
ings  of  gigantic  interests,  by  victory  over  opposing  or- 
ganizations, over  Nature  herself. 

As  for  Jerry,  who  had  begun  to  occupy  a  good  deal 
of  his  thought,  a  decision  in  favor  of  J.  S.  Vandever 
would  not  necessarily  exclude  her  from  his  life.  He 
would  not  see  her  so  often,  or  so  intimately,  as  in  the 
Vandever  mansion;  but  of  course  he  would  see  her. 
And  if  he  found  that  his  interest  in  her  was  deepening 
into  love,  he  need  not  despair.  He  would  seek  first  the 
kingdom  of  achievement  —  perhaps  all  these  other 
things  would  be  added  unto  him. 

When  he  went  at  last  to  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
to  declare  his  resolution,  reached  after  so  many  hours 
of  torturing  indecision,  he  found  the  white-and-gold  car 
before  the  gates,  which  he  recognized  as  the  especial 
property  of  Jerry.  J.  S.  Vandever,  who  had  dashed 

[323] 


Something  Else 

up  from  the  lower  city,  in  his  runabout,  reached  the  door 
as  Irving  came  up.  Mr.  Vandever  knew  that  there  was 
to  be  some  sort  of  meeting  in  his  wife's  apartments,  and 
imagined  that  the  young  man  had  come  to  attend  an 
Identification  seance,  or  a  charity  gathering. 

He  gave  Irving  a  friendly  nod,  as  he  inquired,  gravely, 
"Souls  or  Cats?" 

"  Souls,"  said  Irving. 

Mr.  Vandever  went  at  once  to  his  library  to  immerse 
himself  in  legal  papers.  Irving  was  shown  to  the  draw- 
ing room,  where  Mrs.  Vandeve'r  and  Jerry  hovered; 
the  former  preparatory  to  swooping  down  upon  first 
arrivals;  the  latter  in  a  street  dress  denoting  flight. 
Irving  was  unexpected,  but  welcome.  Claude,  however, 
was  asleep ;  and  if  — 

In  fact,  Irving's  expression  told  them  that  he  meant 
to  decline  Claude's  offer;  and  Mrs.  Vandever,  knowing 
that  her  son  had  taken  the  matter  to  heart,  intended  to 
try  her  powers  of  persuasion  before  delivering  the  de- 
cision to  Claude.  Jerry,  too,  was  anxious  for  Irving  to 
accept.  They  were  so  kind,  and  so  sincere  that  Irving 
was  touched  and  embarrassed.  It  made  it  hard  for 
him,  all  the  more  because  he  could  not  exactly  state  his 
reasons  in  convincing  terms. 

Presently  an  unlooked-for  diversion  occurred.  Irving 
was  suddenly  struck  by  a  look  of  friendly  appeal,  which 
shone  out  from  the  indefinable  atmosphere  of  the  lady's 
habitual  melancholy ;  it  was  precisely  the  look  which  Mr. 
Burl  had  skilfully  caught  and  fixed  upon  his  canvas. 
Irving  referred  to  the  picture,  by  one  of  his  friends,  an 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

out-of-date  artist  in  a  forgotten  corner  of  the  city. 
What  was  his  name  ?  Christopher  Burl  — 

Mrs.  Vandever  swayed;  but  she  motioned  to  Irving 
not  to  support  her.  Jerry  was  frightened.  "  I  will 
not  faint,"  whispered  Mrs.  Vandever,  with  pallid  lips. 
Her  hand  went  to  her  heart.  She  breathed  rapidly,  re- 
peating, "  No,  I  will  not  faint." 

Jerry  would  have  pressed  the  bell  cord. 

"  I  don't  want  the  maid,"  Mrs.  Vandever  interposed, 
and  her  color  rapidly  returned.  "  It  was  just  a  mo- 
ment —  I  had  no  idea  I  was  so  indisposed  —  Whom 
were  we  speaking  of?  I  thought  some  one  mentioned 

99 

"  A  complete  stranger,  Lady  Vandever,"  said  Jerry, 
assuringly.  "  A  Mr.  Christopher  Burl,  I  believe." 

Mrs.  Vandever,  who  had  almost  fallen  into  a  chair, 
remained  sitting  in  sidewise  position.  She  looked  over 
her  shoulder  at  Irving :  "  A  relative  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest  kin,"  said  Irving,  wondering  if  the 
name  of  his  friend  had  caused  the  change  in  her.  "  We 
are  accidental  acquaintances,  but  he  has  been  kind  to 
me.  Dr.  Adams  knows  him." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Vandever,  rather  faintly.  "  Possi- 
bly I  have  heard  Dr.  Adams  speak  of  this  artist.  And 
he  is  not  your  —  he  is  no  kin  to  you,  then?  " 

"I  just  ran  across  him,  one  day,  by  accident,"  Irving 
explained  — "  or  he  ran  across  me,  I  don't  know  which. 
We  struck  up  an  acquaintance,  and  I  found  him  a  fine 
old  fellow." 

"Yes?  "  said  Mrs.  Vandever,  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
[325] 


Something  Else 

not  only  to  dismiss  Christopher  Burl,  but  also  Irving 
Payne.  The  alteration  in  her  manner  was  almost  im- 
perceptible. It  was  manifested  chiefly  in  this,  that  she 
no  longer  urged  Irving  to  enter  her  son's  employment. 
And  yet,  he  could  not  be  sure  that  she  ceased  to  urge 
because  she  had  lost  the  desire.  It  was  possible  that  his 
decisive  refusal  had  been  accepted  as  unalterable.  Still, 
it  was  strange  that,  until  Mr.  Burl  was  mentioned,  she 
had  made  light  of  his  objections. 

Jerry,  however,  had  no  intention  of  letting  off  Irving 
so  easily.  As  we  shall  see,  her  reasons  were  not  purely 
disinterested.  She  was  attired  for  the  white-and-gold 
car;  her  destination  was  a  friend's  home  in  Brooklyn. 
And  if  Irving  would  go  with  her,  just  for  the  drive! 
This,  be  it  understood,  was  after  Irving  had  left  the 
house;  while  yet  he  lingered  before  the  gates,  where 
Jerry,  with  dark  design,  had  overtaken  him. 

"  If  you  would  only  go  with  me !  "  What  a  pleading 
face! 

"  Go  with  you,  Jerry  ?  Why,  I  would  go  with  you  to 
—  to—" 

"  Maybe  I  '11  never  go  there,"  Jerry  interrupted.  "  I 
mean  to  turn  good,  when  I  'm  old.  Come,  then !  " 

Down  Fifth  Avenue  they  glided,  side  by  side.  Central 
Park  vanished.  Into  Fourth  Avenue  they  swerved,  not 
to  bend  their  course  till  the  Bowery  was  reached.  Irving 
found  no  incongruity  in  the  jumbled  scenes  of  marble 
palaces,  grimy  hovels,  the  noisy  traffic  of  the  streets,  the 
ugly  mutilation  of  thoroughfares  for  the  laying  of  gas- 

[326] 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

pipes.  When  detours  carried  them  past  rusting  fire  es- 
capes which  gleamed  like  rainbows  in  all  the  colors  of  the 
day's  wash,  or  when  they  skirted  a  little  park  whose  timid 
green  looked  already  old,  there  was  always  the  booming 
of  the  city  in  its  one  bass  note,  accompanying  all  other 
sounds,  and  there  was  Jerry's  flashing  face  and  nervous 
voice,  giving  to  all  incongruities  a  sense  of  unity. 

In  the  meantime,  conversation  had  been  rapid,  electric, 
following  the  course  of  least  resistance.  Jerry  had  a 
favor,  a  great  favor  to  ask.  And  she  did  n't  know  how 
he  would  take  it,  because  she  did  n't  know  just  how  much 
he  meant  what  he  said  —  when  he  said  that  he  cared  very 
much. 

"  For  you,"  said  Irving,  "  certainly  I  do.  And 
you  've  granted  me  such  a  great  favor  —  this  ride  with 
you  —  it 's  like  a  princess  bestowing  a  gift.  You  don't 
imagine  I  could  refuse  you  anything,  do  you,  Jerry? 
Except  to  be  Claude's  secretary.  Excuse  rhyme." 

"  I  will,  for  the  sake  of  reason.  Be  reasonable. 
Anyway,  I  'm  not  going  to  say  one  word  about  that  sec- 
retaryship, although  I  do  think  —  even  if  for  my  sake, 
if  that  's  anything  — " 

"  Jerry !  If  you  keep  looking  that  way,  you  might 
just  as  well  knock  me  on  the  head  and  throw  me  over- 
board. Please  don't  be  so  charming,  that 's  a  good 
soul.  Does  this  remind  you  any  of  the  day  at  Briarcliff  ? 
I  love  to  think  of  that.  You  stood  up,  shouting  like 
mad,  and  holding  my  hand  — " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  did  n't,"  pouted  Jerry.  "  How  ridic- 
[327] 


Something  Else 

ulous !  Like  this  ?  "  She  caught  his  hand  with  a  sud- 
den blinding  smile,  and  he  grasped  her  fingers  before 
they  could  slip  away. 

"  And  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you,"  Irving  hurried  on, 
breathlessly,  "  and  I  called  you  '  darling,5  just  as  I  call 
you  darling,  now,  with  your  hand  in  mine." 

"  And  all  these  people  will  see  you,"  she  flashed  at 
him,  without  trying  to  draw  away.  "  Then  my  picture 
in  the  morning  papers.  Then  papa  will  say,  *  I  can 
see  no  one ;  I  have  no  statement  to  make/  ' 

"  And  I  — "  began  Irving. 

"  Oh,  you  will  simply  not  be.  Papa  will  fix  you! 
Better  put  your  hand  in  your  pocket."  She  looked  at 
him  gravely  with  a  face  of  such  perfect  innocence  and 
naivete  that  Irving  almost  believed  it  natural.  "  Be- 
sides," she  said,  opening  her  eyes,  "when  you  said  you 
loved  me,  and  when  you  called  me  *  darling,'  it  was  just 
the  excitement  of  the  races.  It  was  just  Old  Gibsy." 

"  And  what  is  it  now  ?  "  Irving  demanded,  pressing 
her  hand.  "  What  is  it  now,  little  darling  Jerry  ?  " 

"  Now  listen,  Irving.  I  said  I  had  a  favor  to  ask. 
If  you  grant  it,  why,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  do ; 
I  '11  let  you  call  me  that  .  .  .  when  no  one  is 
around,  you  understand.  Quite  alone,  Irving.  You  are 
going  with  us  to  the  Catskills ;  I  know  you  are,  because 
I  know  you  are  going  to  be  Claude's  social  secretary. 
Because  if  you  are  n't,  my  purpose  is  never  to  speak  to 
you  again,  as  long  as  I  live.  Very  well,  Mr.  Payne. 
You  '11  climb  the  trails  with  me  this  summer  —  because 
I  '11  not  be  out  yet,  and  you  9ll  be  nobody.  I  shall  have 

[328] 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

to  be  pulled  up  those  steepest  paths  that  lead  to  Joe 
Jefferson's  cabin  —  no,  I  mean  Rip  Van  W.'s  cabin,  the 
sleeping-man's,  you  know.  Well,  you  shall  pull  me  up 
those  paths.  Sometimes  I  '11  have  to  jump  from  tiny 
precipices,  as  everybody  feminine  must;  you  shall  be  at 
the  bottom,  to  catch  me.  And  do  you  know,  among  the 
old  Dutch  houses,  there 's  a  ghost  that  comes  every 
night  with  a  rope  about  his  neck  —  and  if  I  get  too 
afraid,  you  shall  hold  my  hand,  as  you  're  doing  this 
minute.  We  '11  be  cut  off  from  the  set,  so  we  '11  have 
only  each  other;  and  oh!  doesn't  it  sound  wild?  And 
that 's  what  it  means,  I  want  you  to  know,  to  be  a  social 
secretary." 

Six  months  ago  —  nay,  a  month  ago, —  Irving  would 
have  been  quite  lost.  Even  now,  he  had  lost  directions, 
without  much  caring,  so  long  as  he  held  Jerry's  hand. 

Jerry's  manner  now  changed.  Into  its  brilliance  en- 
tered a  hardness ;  into  her  vagaries,  method.  "  You 
referred  to  Briarcliff,"  she  said,  "  and  that  brings  me 
to  the  favor  I  'm  to  ask.  I  told  you,  that  morning, 
about  my  friend  who  married,  as  a  sort  of  prank,  last 
summer,  at  Atlantic  City,  and  who  has  been  sorry  ever 
since." 

"  But  you  told  me  the  ceremony  was  illegal,  on  ac- 
count of  her  youth." 

"  Oh,  yes !  but  the  man  she  's  married  to,  still  wants 
her,  this  Claude  Vandever  who  is  so  inconstant  in 
other  matters.  He  still  wants  her." 

"  But  can't  get  her,  since  she  's  free,"  said  Irving, 
comfortably. 

[329] 


Something  Else 

"  But  could  tell  her  papa  what  happened,  last  sum- 
mer, and  make  no  end  of  trouble." 

"  But  would  n't  do  that,  since  it  could  n't  win  him 
the  girl.  I  don't  believe  Claude  is  the  sort  of  fellow 
to  try  to  intimidate  a  young  girl." 

"  You  never  saw  Claude  in  love.  He  knows  very 
well  that  the  only  way  to  hide  everything  is  for  that 
girl  to  marry  him.  And  he  wants  her  —  oh !  how  he 
wants  that  girl.  He  's  not  sensible  about  her  at  all! 
Maybe  he  'd  be  sorry  to  make  her  marry  him,  and  yet, 
he  'd  be  sorrier  not  to." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  You  wish  me  to  speak  to 
Claude?" 

"Speak  to  Claude?  Horrors!  You're  as  slow  as 
the  Senate.  No,  sir!  I  want  to  find  out  some  of 
Claude's  secrets,  so  I  can  give  them  to  my  friend. 
When  my  friend  has  these  secrets,  she  '11  no  longer  be 
afraid  of  Claude.  As  it  is,  he  has  her  in  his  power. 
But  then,  it  would  be  a  draw  between  them.  Now  if 
you  will  help  — " 

"Help?     I?     But  how?" 

"  I  told  you  once  that  I  'd  found  the  bedrock  under 
your  nature.  That  means,  that  I  can  trust  you  im- 
plicitly. Won't  you  help  this  poor  child  out  of  his 
power?"  Her  tone  grew  wistful.  "Yes,  I  do  him 
the  justice  to  admit  that  he  really  loves  her.  But  she 
wants  to  be  free,  entirely  free." 

"  I  told  you  my  plan,"  said  Irving :  "  for  her  to  tell 
her  parents.  What  is  your  plan?  " 

"  To  get  Claude  in  her  power,  by  giving  her  some 
[330] 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

secret  about  him  —  oh,  I  don't  know  what.  You  could 
find  out.  Something  about  that  chorus-girl  that  calls 
herself  '  Beauty.'  That 's  what  I  mean.  You  dined 
with  them.  You  could  learn  all  about  it." 

Irving  released  her  hand,  automatically.  "  You 
think  I  would  do  that?  "  he  asked,  rather  in  surprise 
than  displeasure. 

"  It  would  n't  be  so  bad.  He  has  no  right  to  hold  the 
secret  of  the  marriage  over  her  head.  She  has  a  right 
to  know  about  his  private  affairs,  so  she  can  offstand 
that  other.  He  would  n't  threaten  her,  when  she  could 
expose  him.  She  'd  never  use  the  secret  except  to  pro- 
tect herself.  And  she  's  such  a  little  dear !  In  fact,  I 
am  no  more  fascinating  than  she  is.  In  fact,  I  am  she. 
Now  you  know  the  whole  miserable  story.  It  is  I  whom 
Claude  loves.  And  it  is  I  who  am  resolved,  at  any  cost, 
to  preserve  my  freedom  for  some  years  to  come.  And 
it  is  you,  Irving,  who  can  do  this  for  me,  and  win  my 
everlasting  gratitude.  Just  do  what  Claude  wants  — 
just  become  his  social  secretary.  After  that,  it 's  as 
easy  as  A,  B,  C.  Claude  would  never  know.  And  even 
if  he  knew,  he  could  n't  think  much  about  it.  And  there 
would  be  poor  little  Jerry,  snatched  from  under  his 
lion's  paw." 

They  had  reached  the  entrance  to  Williamsburg 
Bridge.  Lifted,  as  by  a  giant  hand,  above  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  dull  green  water,  the  strident  clanging  of  the 
city's  rush  pursued  them.  On  one  hand,  Manhattan 
Island  narrowed  away  to  a  straggling  point,  on  the 
other,  Long  Island  drew  in  her  fringed  skirts  to  make 

[331] 


Something  Else 

room  for  Wallabout  Bay.  He  wondered  if  he  would 
ever  see  these  diverging  shores  without  thinking  of 
Jerry.  He  had  never  understood  her  before;  perhaps 
not  even  now.  But,  in  some  occult  fashion,  the  brist- 
ling towers,  the  smoking  chimneys  of  the  united  city, 
seemed  typified  by  this  spirit,  this  fresh,  nervous,  winged 
embodiment  of  the  unmoral  joy  of  youth:  fresh,  not 
from  lack  of  knowledge  —  from  experience,  only ;  nerv- 
ous, with  the  pulsating  electric  force  that  drove  her 
recklessly  and  undeviatingly  to  her  desires ;  winged,  not 
with  angel  pinions,  but  with  that  prematurely  developed 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  of  the  girl  of  to-day. 

"  Irving ! "  He  felt  a  touch  upon  his  shoulder. 
Jerry  held  her  warm  hand  there,  and  held  her  face  up- 
lifted, that  he  might  look  down  into  her  eyes.  Over  her 
delicate  cheeks  passed  swiftly  the  nerve-force  which  he 
had  found  flashing  only  in  Jerry's  face.  He  caught 
from  her  breath  the  aroma  of  youth.  "  You  will  do  it, 
Irving?  You  will  do  it,  to  save  me?  You  will  do  it, 
for  my  sake?  " 

His  voice  was  simple,  as  if  he  would  have  banished  all 
traces  of  emotion.  "  Jerry,  you  don't  know  me." 
That  was  all.  If  she  had  known  him,  she  would  not 
have  asked. 

They  were  at  the  highest  point  of  the  arch.  She  seemed 
held  against  the  sky,  that  he  might  read  her  through  and 
through.  But  he  scarcely  looked  at  her.  He  could  feel 
but  pity  for  the  shrinking  form,  the  pallid  face.  As  in 
a  moment  she  had  shrunken,  as  if  the  look  in  his  eyes 
had  seen  quite  through  the  Jerry-charm,  the  Jerry-soul, 

[332] 


Irving  Makes  His  Decision 

and  had  found  it  rather  different  from  what  it  had  al- 
ways seemed  to  Jerry  herself. 

Perhaps  another  than  Irving  might  have  smiled  at 
her  inability  to  understand  his  scruples,  might  have  gone 
on  dreaming  the  Jerry-dream.  But  if  Irving  could  ever 
have  loved  Jerry,  the  possibility  had  vanished,  not  to 
return.  It  was  by  no  means  because  he  resolved  that  it 
should  be  thus,  or,  in  fact,  because  his  will  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  matter.  Something  had  passed  away 
without  his  volition  —  into  the  sky,  it  seemed ;  at  any 
rate,  to  an  inconceivable  remoteness.  It  had  passed 
away  because  he  was  already,  in  part,  what  he  had  re- 
solved to  become,  by  the  mere  force  of  resolution,  and 
because  Jerry  was  Jerry,  and  he  understood  her  as  never 
before. 

It  was  some  time  before  Jerry  spoke.  Then  she 
sought  to  respond  to  what  she  believed  dominant  in  his 
mind.  "  But  I  have  my  ideas,  too ;  and  ideals." 

"  One  must  live  by  his  own  ideals,  of  course,"  said 
Irving,  with  no  shade  of  censure.  It  was  not  so  easy  to 
conceal  his  disappointment.  It  seemed  akin  to  tragedy, 
that  Jerry  should  be  so  near,  so  approachable,  and  that 
he  should  not  in  the  least  care.  Their  silence  was 
pregnant  with  mutual  understanding.  The  stillness 
between  them  told  everything  they  needed  to  know. 

"  But  I  ought  not  to  go  farther,"  said  Irving,  sud- 
denly ;  "  the  fact  is,  I  have  an  — "  He  checked  him- 
self, and  spoke  in  lighter  vein.  "  The  fact  is,  Jerry,  I 
am  very  bad  company,  to-day." 

"  So  you  are,"  smiled  Jerry.  Such  a  ghostly,  shiv- 
[333] 


Something  Else 

ery  little  smile  it  was!  "Get  out,  then."  The  car 
stopped.  She  added,  looking  down  upon  him,  as  he 
hesitated  on  the  sidewalk,  "  I  know  what  I  've  lost. 
Good-bye.  No  handshakes.  No  flags  of  truce."  She 
turned  to  the  chauffeur  imperiously :  "  Drive  on !  " 

Irving  stood  looking  wistfully,  one  might  have 
thought  regretfully,  after  the  automobile.  It  seemed 
bearing  away  the  last  fragment  of  his  old  nature,  and  his 
new  self  was  still  so  new,  that  he  felt  a  little  lonely. 


[334] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   MYSTERY   IS   REVIVED 

SO,  after  all,  it  was  somebody  else  who  pulled 
Jerry  Vandever  up  those  steepest  paths  lead- 
ing to  the  cabin  of  sleepy  old  Rip!  Whoever 
stood  at  the  base  of  a  tiny  precipice  to  catch  Jerry, 
as  she  leaped  from  the  brow,  it  was  not  Irving  Payne. 
It  was  Claude,  perhaps;  at  any  rate,  those  who  know 
Jerry  must  be  convinced  that  it  was  somebody. 

As  Irving's  choice  excluded  the  prospect  of  standing 
at  the  base  of  a  Catskill  precipice,  so  it  insured  that  he 
should  not  remain  at  the  bottom  of  the  precipice  of  life. 
The  climbing  would  be  difficult;  there  might  be  grass 
no  greener  above  than  below;  but  the  air  would  prove 
more  exhilarating.  Possibly  one  lasts  longer  down  in 
the  valley,  if  happily,  enough  substance  be  found  to 
keep  soul  and  body  together.  But  if  the  atmosphere 
of  the  heights  keeps  one's  energies  always  blazing,  as 
in  a  strong  wind,  till  they  are  burned  out  to  the  last 
atom  of  their  resistance, —  nevertheless,  one  lives. 

Gotham  Repose,  which  we  may  regard  as  nestling 
close  to  the  base  of  life's  precipice,  was,  therefore,  de- 
serted. Irving  had  climbed  above  its  skylit  room. 
Those  familiar  shades  of  the  lodging-house  had  flitted 
to  oblivion  —  the  young  reporter  who  could  never 

[335] 


Something  Else 

make  two  ends  meet,  even  in  the  matter  of  matching 
some  fact  with  his  account  of  it;  the  blondined  type- 
writer, so  conscientiously  artificial;  the  seamstress, 
timid  and  wan ;  the  Du  Pays  —  had  all  vanished  from 
his  world,  as  had  already  vanished  Mrs.  Wyse,  Jessie 
Tiff,  Wedging;  in  a  word,  characters  enough  to  have 
stocked  a  dozen  novels. 

To  be  sure,  Irving  sometimes  saw  Wedging,  since 
Irving  was  in  J.  S.  Vandever's  office  on  Broad  Street, 
while  Wedging  worked  in  a  broker's  office  on  Wall 
Street.  Their  accidental  encounters  were  as  free  from 
enthusiasm  as  can  well  be  imagined.  They  had  slept 
together,  without  a  touching  of  souls. 

As  to  the  details  of  Irving's  tireless  devotion  to  his 
particular  allotment  of  the  world's  work,  one  might  as 
well  go  to  hard  labor  as  dwell  upon  that.  It  wearies 
one's  brain  to  contemplate  the  vast  amount  of  exercise 
undergone  by  the  young  man's  body,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  perplexities  that  kept  him  awake  at  night.  If 
the  sheets,  typewritten  by  him  at  feverish  speed,  had 
been  pinned  together,  might  they  not  have  reached 
from  here  to  Mars?  It  is  not  for  us  to  make  the  cal- 
culation, since  no  J.  S.  Vandever  has  us  in  mind  as 
private  secretary. 

It  is  because  Irving's  duties  sometimes  carried  him 
to  the  Vandever  mansion,  that  we  cannot  dismiss  this 
part  of  his  life  with  a  mere  word.  Two  of  those  busi- 
ness calls  were  important  in  a  sense  entirely  apart 
from  the  interests  of  his  employer,  since  they  bore  upon 
the  young  man's  life-mystery. 

[  336  ] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

The  first  incident  came  four  months  after  Irving's 
entrance  into  J.  S.  Vandever's  employ.  That  was  in 
August,  when  everybody  who  was  anybody  —  as  of 
course  Irving  was  n't  —  had  left  the  city  long  ago. 
Surely  enough  has  been  said  to  explain  the  entrance  of 
Irving,  at  any  hour,  within  the  steel  gates  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  It  was  not  to  the  drawing-room  that  he  as- 
pired —  fortunately  enough,  since  shrouded  furniture 
and  aromatic  mothballs  told  of  absence  at  fashionable 
bathing-resorts  on  lake,  or  sea  —  it  was  the  library, 
rather,  that  constituted  his  limited  field  of  action  in 
the  Vandever  mansion. 

J.  S.  Vandever,  with  that  instinct  of  organizing 
power  peculiar  to  the  genius  of  the  few  masters  of  the 
world,  had  penetrated  to  what  Jerry  termed  Irving's 
bedrock.  It  had  not  taken  four  months  to  convince 
the  financier  that  the  young  man  possessed,  among 
other  excellent  qualities,  one  decidedly  rare  —  relia- 
bility. In  the  mutations  of  affairs  and  men,  Irving 
stood  like  a  rock  against  which  the  current  breaks  in 
vain.  He  was  faithful;  and  J.  S.  Vandever  developed 
his  trustworthiness  by  trusting  him.  Little  by  little, 
he  placed  certain  confidences  in  Irving's  keeping.  Like 
Napoleon,  Mr.  Vandever  conquered  wherever  he  ap- 
peared in  person,  but  he  could  not  be  everywhere  at 
once.  He  needed  a  Marshal  Ney,  and  he  believed  Ir- 
ving possessed  not  only  the  requisite  courage  and  pru- 
dence, but  the  fidelity  indispensable  for  such  a  position. 

Moreover,  Irving  showed  such  tireless  interest  in  all 
important  affairs,  his  ambition  was  so  undaunted  be- 

[  337  ] 


Something  Else 

fore  the  contemplation  of  vast  combinations,  and  his 
ingenuity  in  finding  ways  and  means  when  there  seemed, 
to  one  less  penetrating,  but  a  single  road  leading  up 
against  a  dead  wall  —  this  ingenuity  was  so  inventive, 
that  J.  S.  Vandever  hoped,  within  no  great  lapse  of  time, 
to  promote  the  young  man  to  the  post  in  question.  In 
the  meantime,  he  said  nothing;  but  if  he  had,  it  would 
not  have  surprised  Irving.  For  Irving,  so  far  from 
doubting  his  ability  to  enact  the  part  of  a  Marshal 
Ney,  already  looked  upon  himself  as  a  future  Napo- 
leon. 

In  the  meantime,  our  young  Corsican,  trailing  no 
clouds  of  glory  about  him,  came  to  the  Vandever  man- 
sion, on  the  August  afternoon  in  question.  He  was  ad- 
mitted at  once,  and  he  ascended,  as  one  who  has  the 
right  of  way,  to  the  library.  As  he  opened  the  library 
door,  thinking  only  of  the  papers  for  which  Mr.  Van- 
dever had  sent  him,  voices  came  from  the  ladies'  draw- 
ing room.  He  supposed  the  servants  were  enjoying 
their  summer  liberty,  and  went  on  into  the  library  with- 
out suspecting  that  Mrs.  Vandever  had,  the  evening  be- 
fore, run  over  from  Newport. 

He  stopped  suddenly,  on  finding  that  some  one  was 
in  the  room;  some  one  who  had  hastily  risen  at  sound 
of  his  footsteps,  and  who  was  hurrying  toward  another 
door  as  if  to  escape.  The  appearance  of  this  woman, 
so  far  as  he  could  judge  from  her  dress  and  the  back 
of  her  head,  was  not  that  of  a  fugitive  criminal,  else 
he  might  have  suspected  her  of  having  slipped  into  the 
library  to  steal.  Indeed,  so  swiftly  and  unceremoni- 

[338] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

ously  did  she  dart  away,  that  the  suspicion  grew  in 
probability. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  uncertain  how  to  act.  If 
the  woman,  in  spite  of  her  air  of  refinement,  was  a 
thief,  doubtless  the  servants  were  in  league  with  her. 
It  was  unlikely  that  they  could  gain  access  to  any  pa- 
pers of  the  secret,  or  locked,  drawers  and  boxes  that 
could  be  of  any  value  to  them.  Still  — 

It  was  not  until  the  door  opened  again  that  he  had 
any  warning  of  Mrs.  Vandever's  presence  in  the  city. 
It  was  her  voice,  and  that  of  a  friend,  which  had  come 
from  the  distant  apartment.  He  now  learned  that 
Mrs.  Vandever  had  come  to  town  with  a  small  com- 
pany of  friends  on  pressing  business  —  what  else  could 
induce  them  to  enter  the  oven's  mouth?  —  and  they 
were  to  return  that  night.  Mr.  Vandever  had  been 
telephoned  to  come,  at  once,  to  discuss  a  certain  matter 
with  one  of  Mrs.  Vandever's  friends. 

"  It  was  she  whom  you  found  in  the  library,"  said 
Mrs.  Vandever,  with  her  kindly,  but  remote  smile.  The 
former  charm  of  haunting  melancholy  and  pensive 
beauty  remained ;  but  the  dark  eyes  and  sensitive  mouth 
no  longer  seemed  to  sue  for  his  regard.  Was  it  be- 
cause he  had  refused  to  become  Claude's  social  secre- 
tary, in  becoming  private  secretary  to  her  husband? 

Mrs.  Vandever  continued :  "  My  friend  asked  me  to 
come  to  explain  her  sudden  flight.  You  must  have 
thought  it  strange,  but  she  had  suddenly  grown  ill,  and 
felt  herself  unfit  to  meet  a  stranger." 

"  If  I  had  known  you  were  here,"  Irving  smiled, 
[339] 


Something  Else 

"  and  that  she  was  your  friend,  I  'd  have  thought  noth- 
ing about  it.  But  1 'm  glad  you  told  me  how  it  was,  or 
I  might  have  thought  Mrs. —  that  Mrs. — " 

"  Mrs.  Fenly  is  my  friend's  name,"  said  Mrs.  Van- 
dever,  tranquilly.  "  Mrs.  Fenly  is  very  desirous  of 
seeing  Mr.  Vandever  this  afternoon." 

"  I  am  going  back  to  the  office,"  Irving  said,  "  with 
this  box  of  papers.  If  he  has  n't  already  left,  I  '11  tell 
him  that  Mrs.  Fenly  — " 

"You'd  better  just  say,  '  a  lady  on  business  ';  for 
Mr.  Vandever  does  n't  know  her." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Irving  as  strange  that  Mr.  Van- 
dever should  not  know  Mrs.  Fenly;  he  imagined  that 
the  great  financier  was  unacquainted  with  most  of  the 
friends  of  his  wife  and  children.  What  did  seem 
strange  to  him  was,  that  he  fancied  he  had  seen  Mrs. 
Fenly  before,  and  in  some  important  phase  of  his  own 
life.  He  had  thought  so,  the  instant  of  discovering 
her  in  the  library,  though  her  back  was  turned  upon 
him.  In  her  rapid  flight,  the  movement  of  her  body 
had  suggested  some  one  in  his  past.  Yet  he  was  con- 
vinced that  he  had  never  known  the  name  Fenly.  This 
conviction  did  not  suggest  that  he  was  mistaken  about 
the  woman. 

"  I  know  I  've  seen  her  before,"  he  declared  to  him- 
self, "  and  not  only  seen  her,  but  been  associated  with 
her.  And  she  could  n't  have  been  called  '  Mrs.  Fenly  ' 
at  that  time.  Then  what  was  she  called?  And  who  is 
she?  But  after  all,  what  can  it  matter?  For  I  am 

[340] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

done  with  all  my  past;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  so- 
ciety on  the  Vandever  side  of  the  line." 

Thus  did  he  serenely  dismiss  Mrs.  Fenly  from  his 
mind.  Nor  was  he  to  think  of  her  again,  except  in  most 
casual  fashion,  until  two  months  later,  when  she  again 
crossed  his  orbit,  in  a  manner  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Let  us  pass  immediately  to  the  occasion.  We  shall 
have  no  change  of  scene,  hardly  of  circumstance.  Ir- 
ving has  again  come  to  the  library,  not,  this  time,  to 
carry  papers  away,  but  to  consult  a  great  quantity  of 
them ;  and,  as  formerly,  he  is  surprised  to  find  a  woman 
already  there  at  his  entrance,  though  so  far  from  run- 
ning away,  she  advances  with  a  quick  white  smile,  the 
Jerry  smile,  in  a  word. 

Yes,  it  is  Jerry;  never  for  a  moment  can  there  be 
the  least  doubt  of  that.  Why  here?  Design,  depend 
upon  it!  Jerry  has  too  unmistakably  the  air  of  hav- 
ing waited  for  Irving,  to  leave  that  in  doubt.  Yet  she 
could  not  have  known  he  was  coming,  unless  advised  by 
her  father. 

J.  S.  Vandever  was,  then,  somewhere  in  the  house; 
had  come,  according  to  Jerry,  to  meet  a  friend  of  her 
step-mother's,  a  Mrs.  Fenly.  "  Who  I  detest,"  she 
added,  with  unbecoming  scorn  for  her  relative  pronoun. 
All  had  come  up  from  Long  Island  for  a  few  days, 
strictly  on  business,  of  course,  since  September  is  impos- 
sible in  the  city  — "  Except,  of  course,  for  those  who  are 
out  of  it,"  says  Jerry. 

Irving,  drawing  forth  the  papers  for  the  making 
[  341  ] 


Something  Else 

of  memoranda,  cheerfully  accepted  her  classification. 
Jerry  looked  at  him  with  a  thoughtful  frown.  It 
seemed  out  of  all  keeping  with  her  expression  of  slight- 
ness  and  gayety.  She  was  thinking  that  Irving  did  not 
have  the  air  of  one  who  is  "  out  of  it."  He  impressed 
her  much  more  deeply  than  formerly.  Since  that 
morning  at  Dr.  Adams's,  his  air  had  changed,  his  eyes 
were  different,  even  his  face  seemed  transformed.  The 
exuberance  of  youth  was  excised;  he  was  like  a  vessel 
trimmed  for  rough  weather.  The  very  expression  of 
his  face  promised  safety  and  destination. 

Jerry  perched  on  a  corner  of  the  table,  unconsciously 
seeking  his  level.  "  Irving,"  she  asked  abruptly,  look- 
ing far  from  content,  "  what  do  you  think  of  it?  "  She 
waved  her  hand  impatiently  toward  the  documents. 
"  Do  you  get  much  out  of  life,  after  all?  " 

Irving  smiled,  self-containedly.  "  I  get  all  out  of 
life  that  there  is  in  me"  he  said.  "  That 's  some- 
thing." 

"  Is  it  enough  ?  "  she  returned,  discontentedly. 

"  No.  That 's  why  I  'm  developing  myself,  so  I  can 
get  more.  We  receive  according  to  our  capacity." 

"  But  are  you  much  fun  to  yourself?  "  she  inquired, 
shrugging  her  pretty  shoulders,  and  reaching  down  to 
find  if  she  could  touch  the  carpet  with  her  foot.  "  Don't 
you  bore  yourself  awfully,  when  you  're  alone  ?  Can 
you  really  make  yourself  feel  that  quotations  of  stocks 
and  bonds  are  more  human  than  quotations  of  the  best 
authors?" 

Her  perverse  air  suggested  one  seeking  a  quarrel. 
[342] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

She  was  so  little,  so  piquant,  so  bright-eyed,  he  thought 
of  a  bird  with  ruffled  feathers.  He  answered,  smiling 
at  her,  "  I  do  not  find  it  dangerous  to  leave  myself 
alone." 

She  showed  him  her  teeth.  Then  she  extended  a 
dainty  finger,  and  denounced  him  viciously.  "  /  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Irving  Payne.  You  are 
so  wrapped  up  in  yourself  and  your  plans,  that  you 
care  about  nothing  else.  Very  well!  The  longer  you 
are  with  J.  S.  Vandever  and  Company,  the  more  selfish 
you  '11  become.  Of  course.  But  if  /  had  to  live  for 
myself  alone,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  everybody  else,  in 
order,  as  you  say,  to  increase  my  capacity  —  well ! 
I  'd  rather  have  a  smaller  capacity,  with  a  larger  heart. 
Yes,  I  would.  Oh,  I  know  very  well  what  fine  names 
you  'd  give  your  ambitions.  But  whatever  you  call 
them,  it 's  all  one.  What  you  want  is  money,  and  lots 
of  it,  and  you  mean  to  have  it,  and  you  mean  to  think 
of  nothing  else  but  getting  it.  And  maybe  when  you  're 
a  shrivelled-up  old  man,  all  weasened,  and  dried-out, 
you  Jll  have  your  millions  and  nothing  else.  And  you 
call  that  getting  something  out  of  life !  Why  ?  You'  re 
not  getting  anything  out  of  life  1 "  She  paused,  out  of 
breath. 

"  Are  you?  "  Irving  asked,  good-naturedly. 

"  Yes  !  "  she  snapped.  "  Fun.  Excitement.  Change. 
Oh  — "  she  extended  her  arms  — "  all  that.  You  see  ? 
The  universe.  But  as  for  you  —  a  desk,  an  office ; 
walls  and  a  door.  Irving,  leave  all  that,  and  be  some- 
body. Come  on !  "  Her  bright  face  challenged. 

[343] 


Something  Else 

"  It 's  not  in  your  direction,  Jerry,  for  me  to  be 
somebody,"  Irving  said,  soberly. 

"  And  another  thing,"  Jerry  added,  quickly,  not 
without  a  faint  dawn  of  rose  in  her  cheeks,  "  you  can 
prevent  me  —  I  mean  you  can  keep  me  from  being  — 
I  'm  going  to  build  on  your  bedrock,  Irving,  by  trust- 
ing you.  My  engagement  to  Claude  is  to  be  an- 
nounced as  soon  as  I  've  set  out.  Well,  you  can  prevent 
that.  You  know  how;  I  told  you,  once." 

"  But  I  've  forgotten,"  said  Irving,  lightly.  "  And, 
returning  to  your  other  subject,  I  have  only  this  to 
say—" 

"  That  usually  means  an  hour's  speech,"  inter j  ected 
Jerry,  disappointedly. 

"  That  it 's  money  that  digs  subways,  and  raises  sky- 
scrapers, and  does  big  things  in  this  world,  and  we 
might  as  well  accept  the  fact.  I  don't  think  the  power 
of  money  is  any  more  tyrannous  than  brute  force  used 
to  be.  Something  has  to  govern,  and  if  money  's  the 
ruling  power,  it 's  more  democratic  than  any  other  sys- 
tem of  sovereignty  I  know  of,  since  the  poorest  beggar 
has  a  chance  at  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jerry,  sarcastically,  "  and  I  presume  you 
mean  to  dig  a  subway,  then?  " 

"  I  mean  to  have  something  to  say  about  it,  if  one  's 
to  be  dug." 

Jerry  jumped  down  from  the  table.  "  And  you  '11 
build  sky-scrapers,  no  doubt?  " 

"  And  as  high  as  anybody's,"  Irving  laughed  ambi- 
tiously. 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

She  stamped  her  foot  at  him;  her  anger  was  highly 
provocative,  but  not  as  she  could  have  wished.  "  It  all 
means  money,  money !  "  she  cried.  "  That 's  the  name 
of  it,  and  of  you  and  your  plans  —  just  money, 
money ! " 

"  Money,  money ! "  cried  Irving,  who  was  exhilarated 
by  her  electric  personality  to  the  point  of  effervescence. 
"  All  right,  Jerry,  it 's  money,  money !  I  accept  the 
gantlet.  What  is  gained  by  pretending  to  despise  what 
everybody  in  the  civilized  world  wants?  Of  course  it  's 
money.  To  love  it  is  the  root  of  all  evil ;  and  that 's 
why  the  indiscriminate  mob  cries  out  against  it,  seeing 
no  difference  between  those  who  love  it,  and  those  who 
use  it  to  procure  what  they  love.  In  old  times,  the  sol- 
dier of  fortune  had  the  chance  of  fighting  his  way  over 
the  corpses  of  the  enemy,  to  a  brief  glory.  But  to- 
day—" 

"  To-day,"  cried  Jerry,  "  we  are  all  mercenary  sol- 
diers, it  seems.  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Mousquetaire  of 
the  Dollar.  I  hope  you  '11  be  bravely  paid !  "  Jerry 
was  flushed,  and  flashing  of  eye.  She  darted  from  the 
room,  as  if  driven  from  an  actual  field  of  battle.  In 
truth,  she  cared  little  about  abstract  principles,  and 
no  one  realized  the  advantages  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  home 
more  than  she.  But  Irving  had  sadly  disappointed 
her.  She  had  expected,  before  leaving  Long  Island,  to 
make  a  final  appeal  to  him ;  and  she  had  hoped  —  But 
she  hardly  knew  what  she  had  hoped.  She  had  hoped, 
at  any  rate.  In  the  young  man  she  discovered  some- 
thing unexpected;  it  was  not  only  that  he  resisted  her, 

[  345  ] 


Something  Else 

but  that  he  did  so  apparently  without  effort  or  regret. 
There  was  about  him  a  certain  substantiality  of  which 
she  knew  but  little.  In  a  way,  it  added  to  his  charm, 
because  semi-mysterious.  The  keenness  of  his  eye,  and 
the  alertness  of  his  face,  rendered  him  handsome  to  a 
degree  before  unknown.  There  was  in  his  features  an 
element  of  masculinity  and  latent  power,  which  gave 
the  transforming  touch. 

He  finished  his  work  by  an  evening  lamp,  and  was 
about  to  go,  when  to  his  surprise,  Jerry  reentered.  She 
came  straight  up  to  him,  and  held  out  her  hand.  He 
was  astonished.  The  difference  of  opinion  had  meant 
so  much  more  to  her  than  to  him. 

"  Of  course  I  misrepresented  you,  Irving,"  she  said, 
"  and  of  course  I  was  hateful.  You  '11  be  a  great  man 
some  day,  and  I  '11  never  be  a  great  woman.  It 's  all 
as  we  determine,  no  doubt.  There 's  Winifred  — 
she  '11  reach  high,  because  she  aspires.  I  won't,  because 
I  don't.  It  tires  me  to  think  of  being  great  —  it  bores 
me  to  read  of  those  who  are.  But  there  's  one  thing, 
and  I  want  you  to  believe  it :  I  shall  always  regard  you 
for  what  you  are.  You  understand?  For  what  you 
are,  not  for  what  other  people  are." 

Irving  was  touched,  but  also  mystified.  "  No,  Jerry, 
I  don't  exactly  understand,  because  you  say  that  so 
oddly.  Of  course  I  ask  to  be  taken  only  for  what  I 
am.  What  have  others  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Jerry,  quickly,  "  and  I  want  you 
to  believe  I  shall  always  feel  just  as  I  say." 

Irving  stared  at  her  in  perplexity. 
[346] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

"  Of  course  you  know,"  Jerry  faltered,  "  that  every- 
body does  n't  look  at  it  that  way.  That 's  what  I 
meant." 

"  Look  at  what,  Jerry ;  look  at  what?  " 

"  At  parentage  and  all  that.  It 's  not  American,  I 
say,  to  consider  birth  and  ancestors.  I  just  wanted 
you  to  know  how  I  felt,  that  was  all.  Good-bye." 

"  But  wait  a  moment,  Jerry.  You  speak  in  enig- 
mas. Do  you  know  anything  about  my  parentage?  I 
mean,  except  that  my  father  and  mother  died  when  I 
was  a  mere  infant?  " 

"  Of  course  I  know  that  Mrs.  Wyse  told  you  that," 
said  Jerry,  hesitatingly.  "  But  you  found  out  better, 
Irving." 

With  a  mighty  effort,  Irving  held  his  expression  as 
calm  and  unmoved  as  if  he  did  not  anticipate  some  vital 
discovery.  "  And  how  did  you  find  out  better,  Jerry  ?  " 
he  said,  in  a  fairly  even  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Fenly  knows  all  about  it,"  said  Jerry,  who 
little  suspected  how  great  a  shock  her  words  imparted. 
"  I  heard  her  telling  Lady  Vandever  how  Mrs.  Wyse  — 
the  woman  where  you  lodged,  she  said, —  had  deceived 
you,  in  order  to  get  money  from  you  when  she  should 
tell  the  truth,  at  last.  But  the  police  drove  her  away ; 
and  besides,  you  had  n't  much  money,  I  believe,  at  that 
time."  She  looked  up,  with  an  uncertain  smile;  but 
Irving  was  very  grave,  even  pale. 

"  Go  on,  Jerry,  if  you  please.  I  want  very  much 
to  know  exactly  what  this  friend  of  your  mother  has 
told  her.  Did  you  hear  it  all  ?  "  he  added  eagerly.  He 

[347] 


Something  Else 

leaned  toward  her  with  hands  locked  behind  him,  the 
nails  pressed  against  the  flesh. 

"  But  please  excuse  me,  Irving,"  she  said,  with  most 
unwonted  gentleness.  "  It  is  very  —  unpleasant. 
And  I  only  wanted  you  to  know  how  I  felt,  and  to  say 
good-bye." 

But  his  command,  or  appeal,  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  It  was  only  that  Mrs.  Wyse  deceived  you,  as  I  said, 
and  that  afterwards  you  found  it  out.  And  that  you 
don't  know,  even  now,  who  your  mother  is.  But  that 

—  but  that  you  know  your  father,  and  that  he  is  not 

—  that  he  is  not  an  amiable  character." 

It  seemed  to  Irving  at  that  moment,  that  all  his  future 
hopes  and  present  plans  were  falling  about  his  head. 
His  brain  reeled;  but,  though  he  grew  paler  and  paler, 
and  though  his  hands  trembled  behind  him,  his  eyes 
never  wavered. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  see  this  Mrs.  Fenly,"  he  said, 
no  longer  able  to  hold  his  tones  level.  "  No  doubt  she 
has  told  only  a  part  of  what  sfye  knows.  You  will 
understand  that  I  must  learn  all." 

"You  feel  so?  "  asked  Jerry  doubtfully.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  his  knowledge  of  an  unamiable  father  might 
have  contented.  "  Well,  Mrs.  Fenly  is  no  doubt  in  her 
room.  We  made  her  acquaintance  this  summer,  at 
Saratoga.  She  's  awfully  high  class,  and  knows  every- 
body. She  got  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Wyse  by  your 
landlady  interesting  her  in  some  business  schemes  that 
proved  frauds.  Mrs.  Fenly  lost  ever  so  many  thou- 
sands by  knowing  Mrs.  Wyse.  But  do  you  really  think, 

[  348  ] 


The  Mystery  is  Revived 

Irving,  if  you  have  n't  known  who  your  mother  is  — 
all  this  time  —  that  it's  best  for  you  to  find  out?  " 

"  Yes  !  "     The  word  was  determined,  and  convincing. 

"  Very  well.  If  you  '11  wait,  I  '11  have  her  sent  down 
to  you." 


[349] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   WIFE 

IRVING  did  not  have  long  to  reflect  upon  Jerry's 
astounding  news.  He  had  not  even  attained  com- 
plete self-control,  when  the  library  door  once  more 
opened.  He  started  hurriedly  forward,  eager  to  con- 
front the  woman  who  had  fled  from  him,  on  a  former 
occasion.  But  he  was  to  be  disappointed.  On  leaving 
the  library,  Jerry  had  met  her  step-mother  upon  the 
stairs;  and  Mrs.  Vandever,  on  learning  of  Irving's  re- 
quest for  Mrs.  Fenly,  had  come  instead. 

Therefore  it  was  no  stranger,  but  Mrs.  Vandever, 
who  appeared  in  the  soft  glow  of  the  candles.  She 
greeted  him  with  some  constraint.  Her  beautiful  face 
bore  the  same  shade  of  haunting  melancholy  that 
seemed  so  much  at  home  there;  and  a  look  of  care  had 
stolen  in,  as  if  to  spy  out  the  land  for  the  coming  of  old 
age.  Yet  she  did  not  look  old;  neither  old  nor  young 
—  but  greatly  troubled. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Irving,  divining  how  Jerry  had 
failed  in  her  mission,  "  but  I  should  like  very  much  to 
meet  your  friend  —  Mrs.  Fenly." 

"  Yes  ?  "  she  murmured,  uncertainly.  She  did  not 
bid  him  be  seated,  but  remained  standing  at  a  distance, 

[350] 


The  Wife 

looking  at  him  as  if  he  were  much  farther  away  than 
the  width  of  the  room.  The  subdued  beams  caressed  the 
delicate  hollows  of  cheek  and  neck;  they  rounded 
the  perfect  chin,  touching  one  corner  of  the  sensitive 
mouth  with  starry  radiance,  letting  the  other  shade 
away  into  the  warmth  of  twilight  shadow. 

"  I  have  learned  from,  your  daughter,"  Irving  told 
her,  standing  tall  and  pale,  and  outwardly  composed, 
"  that  your  friend,  Mrs.  Fenly,  knows  more  of  my 
family  history  than  I.  Is  n't  it  a  natural  right  for  me 
to  learn  all  that  is  to  be  learned?  I  should  like  very 
much  to  meet  Mrs.  Fenly." 

Mrs.  Vandever's  lips  tightened.  "  What  did  Jerry 
tell  you?  "  she  temporized. 

Irving  answered,  with  slow  deliberation :  "  She  told 
me  that  my  father  is  living ;  that  he  is  not  an  *  amiable 
character ' ;  that  this  information  was  given  you  by 
Mrs.  Fenly;  that  Mrs.  Fenly  can  disprove  the  story 
of  my  birth  told  me  by  my  former  landlady;  that  this 
landlady,  a  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  inveigled  your  friend  into 
some  scheme  by  which  she  lost  a  good  deal;  and  that 
your  friend  is  now  in  the  house." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Vandever,  who  was  able,  with  that 
word  to  convey  a  definite  suggestion  of  dismissal.  As 
Irving  made  no  movement  to  take  his  leave,  she  ex- 
plained: "Mrs.  Fenly  came  to  town  with  us,  strictly 
on  a  matter  of  business,  and  does  not  want  to  meet  any 
one  except  Mr.  Vandever.  She  has  an  engagement 
with  him,  almost  at  this  hour,  and  in  this  room.  He 
will  be  here  any  moment,  to  confer  with  her  privately 

[351] 


Something  Else 

about  her  interests."  Again  she  looked  at  him, 
significantly. 

"  But  may  I  not  hope  to  speak  to  her,  before  Mr. 
Vandever  comes  —  or  after  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vandever  grew  more  decisive  in  manner. 
"  Mrs.  Fenly  would  rather  not  meet  you,  Mr.  Payne. 
Her  health  is  delicate,  her  nerves  are  racked  by  many 
anxieties  of  which  I  know  nothing ;  and  besides,  you  can 
understand  that  one  in  her  condition  avoids  disagree- 
able interviews.  I  must  confess  that,  when  she  con- 
sented to  come  home  with  us,  she  exacted  the  promise 
that  I  should  not  bring  you  and  her  face  to  face.  To 
be  perfectly  frank,  my  object  in  coming  downstairs, 
just  now,  was  to  find  if  you  had  gone,  so  I  might  tell 
her." 

"  But  you  must  readily  see,  Mrs.  Vandever,"  Irving 
returned,  with  firmness,  "  that  I  require  confirmation  of 
her  statements." 

"  Jerry  has  committed  a  great  indiscretion,"  sighed 
the  other. 

"  I  do  not  know  Mrs.  Fenly,"  Irving  continued,  "  and 
while  you  acknowledge  her  as  your  friend,  I  under- 
stand that  you  never  met  her  until  this  summer." 

"  One  need  not  know  her  long  to  discover  in  her  the 
lady.  I  trust  you  will  not  cause  her  to  regret  her  con- 
fidences, Mr.  Payne." 

Irving  wondered  at  the  other's  cool  aloofness,  which, 
by  the  mere  calling  of  his  surname  was  accentuated. 
Once,  she  had  acknowledged  him  as  "  Irving."  He  hid 
his  disappointment  over  her  altered  bearing,  just  as  he 

[  352  ] 


The  Wife 

concealed  his  eagerness  for  definite  knowledge,  and  his 
determination  to  have  it. 

"  May  I  inquire,"  he  asked,  imitating  her  coolness, 
"  why  this  Mrs.  Fenly  should  have  been  prompted  to 
treat  you  to  my  family  affairs  ?  " 

Mrs.  Vandever  did  not  at  first  reply.  In  spite  of 
her  restrained  expression,  she  felt  sorry  for  the  young 
man.  She  had  permitted  herself  to  entertain  for  him  a 
feeling  of  sincere  sentiment,  not  only  on  her  son's  ac- 
count, but  because  of  that  look,  that  air,  that  something 
which  was  always  recalling  one  out  of  the  past,  to  meet 
her  outreaching  sympathies.  He  was  asking  that  a 
wound  be  inflicted  by  her  hand,  a  hand  that  would  have 
spared  him.  She  had  sought  to  avert  the  blow;  he  re- 
fused mercy. 

"  Irving,"  she  said,  unconsciously  reverting  to  her 
former  use  of  the  name,  "  her  motives  were  sincere.  It 
is  all  on  account  of  your  father.  I  do  not  know  his 
name,  and  Mrs.  Fenly  informs  me  you  do  not  know  it. 
I  think  she  mentioned  it,  but  I  can't  remember.  At  any 
rate  he  is  —  after  all,  we  cannot  better  Jerry's  ex- 
pression :  He  is  not  an  '  amiable  character.'  He  is 
not  —  he  is  not  desirable.  In  brief  he  is  —  quite  im- 
possible. Is  n't  that  sufficient?  " 

"  Only  the  whole  truth  is  sufficient,"  said  Irving, 
unflinchingly. 

"He  — your  father—     It   is   very   difficult   to   tell 

you,    Irving."     She   paused   in    real   distress,    but  he 

waited   in    silence.     She   was    impelled   to   disclose   all. 

"  Your  father  is  a  —  at  least,  he  belongs  to  a  gang  — 

22  I  353  ] 


Something  Else 

a  band  of  —  nihilists,  or  anarchists,  or  something  — 
and  worse  than  that  —  thieves ;  Italian  river-thieves. 
He  is  one  of  them.  And  once  they  accused  him  of 
complicity  in  the  throwing  of  a  bomb  at  Union  Square, 
I  believe  it  was.  He  was  sentenced,  I  think."  She 
shuddered. 

Irving  stood  like  a  rock  against  which  breakers  are 
beating.  His  handsome  face  was  white  and  sharp-cut. 
There  was  not  the  tremor  of  a  muscle. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  friend,"  she  added,  and  he  knew 
how  much  it  cost  her  to  call  him  so.  For  suddenly  he 
had  realized  the  nature  of  the  change  he  had  discovered 
in  Mrs.  Vandever.  His  antecedents  had  cut  him  off 
inevitably  from  her  sphere.  However  sorry  she  might 
feel,  however  kindly  she  might  acknowledge  him  as  her 
"  friend,"  he  must  be  infinitely  less  to  her  than  her 
station  in  life.  His  association  with  Jerry  and  Claude, 
upon  whatever  terms,  was  entirely  of  the  past,  now; 
perhaps  even  his  business  relations  with  J.  S.  Vandever 
were  to  come  to  an  end. 

But  at  that  moment,  he  thought  much  less  of  her 
attitude  toward  him,  than  of  his  toward  the  world.  He 
could  not  be  quite  just  to  her.  Out  of  the  chaotic  mist 
of  his  doubts,  out  of  the  chasm  of  an  undefined  sense 
of  shame,  shot  up  that  tongue  of  flame  that  smoulders 
beneath  natures  even  the  most  restrained. 

"  In  short,  then,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "  I  am  unfit  to 
enter  this  house.  Whether  Mrs.  Fenly  has  told  the 
truth  about  my  father,  or  not,  that  fact  remains,  I  pre- 
sume. I  am  to  accept  disgrace  without  question,  as 

[354] 


The  Wife 

something  I  might  naturally  expect.  Mrs.  Fenly  is,  of 
course,  unimpeachable  and  infallible.  She  decrees  that 
I  am  unworthy.  That 's  enough,  it  seems." 

Mrs.  Vandever's  face  flushed  painfully.  Her  dark 
eyes  gleamed  as  if  they  had  caught  the  other's  wrath, 
and  would  hurl  it  back  in  miserable  hopelessness.  But 
she  grew  calm  in  a  moment.  Her  color  suddenly  de- 
serted her,  but  her  courage  and  gentleness  remained. 
She  walked  toward  him,  swiftly. 

"  Irving,"  she  said,  resting  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
"  all  I  ask  from  you  is  to  believe  from  your  soul  that, 
from  my  inmost  heart,  I  am  sorry." 

"  But  I  won't  believe  this  story !  "  Irving  cried,  in 
confused  defiance.  "  I  can't." 

"  But  you  can  believe  that  I  am  sorry  ?  "  she  peti- 
tioned. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it.  His  eyes,  too, 
were  tender ;  and  they,  also  were  brave.  "  I  '11  prove 
it  an  error,  Mrs.  Vandever.  I  must  see  this  Mrs. 
Fenly." 

"  She  has  promised  to  write  out  the  whole  story,  and 
send  it  to  you." 

Irving  interposed,  in  a  cautious  whisper :  "  Listen ! 
I  hear  a  woman's  dress.  Somebody  's  coming.  Maybe 
it 's  Mrs.  Fenly.  She  heard  us  talking,  and  thinks  I  'm 
Mr.  Vandever." 

"  But  she  must  n't  see  you !  "  Mrs.  Vandever  ex- 
claimed, in  distress.  "  It  would  be  too  great  a  shock. 
Her  nerves  —  her  weakness  —  and  the  distressing  story 
she  would  have  to  tell  —  with  your  eyes  upon  her  ^-< 

[S55] 


Something  Else 

You  must  go,  Irving  —  Quick !  "  Irving  remained  im- 
movable. 

Mrs.  Vandever  did  not  spring  forward  to  close  the 
door.  In  her  heart,  she  felt  that  it  was  but  just  for 
Irving  to  face  his  father's  accuser.  Possibly  she  en- 
tertained the  faint  hope  that  her  friend  might  prove  in 
error.  At  any  rate,  the  encounter  was  now  inevitable. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  slight,  elderly  woman  came 
into  the  room.  On  discovering  Irving,  a  change  came 
over  her  face  which  Mrs.  Vandever  watched  with 
frightened  eyes.  It  was  the  woman  who  had  fled 
from  Irving,  on  being  found  in  this  same  room,  two 
months  ago ;  now  that  they  stood  face  to  face,  he  recog- 
nized her  instantly.  "  Mrs.  Fenly "  was  his  former 
landlady. 

Whether  "  Mrs.  Fenly  "  was  Mrs.  Wyse,  or  whether 
"Mrs.  Wyse,"  was  Mrs.  Fenly,  mattered  nothing  to 
the  young  man.  To  him,  she  was  the  impostor  who  had 
stolen  the  earnings  of  her  lodgers,  not  scrupling  to 
strip  even  Jessie  Tiff  and  the  Du  Pays  of  their  mites; 
she  was  the  fraud  who  had  sent  him,  on  a  false  clue, 
to  Rutgers  Square,  to  meet  a  tramp  who  existed  only 
in  her  scheming  brain. 

"  Mrs.  Fenly,"  said  Mrs.  Vandever,  sympathetically, 
"  this  is  Mr.  Payne.  It  is  unfortunate  that  — " 

"  I  am  greatly  pleased  to  meet  Mrs.  Fenly,"  Irving 
declared,  pronouncing  the  name  with  evident  relish. 
He  regarded  her  not  with  anger,  but  with  joyful  relief. 
Since  she  was  the  authority  for  the  unsavory  story 
about  his  father,  he  need  think  of  it  no  longer.  A  mere 

[356] 


The  Wife 

word  from  him,  would  convince  Mrs.  Vandever  of  the  un- 
trustworthy source  of  her  information. 

Mrs.  Wyse,  or  Mrs.  Fenly,  staggered,  and  clutched 
at  the  hangings  along  the  wall.  She  would  have  fallen 
prostrate,  but  for  a  chair  that  caught  her  relaxed  form. 
Mrs.  Vandever  rushed  to  her  assistance,  but  the  elderly 
woman  shrank  from  Mrs.  Vandever,  even  as  she  had 
cowered  before  Irving's  bright  gaze.  She  clutched  the 
chair  with  both  hands,  and  sustained  herself. 

It  would  have  seemed  incredible  to  Irving  that  such 
a  woman  could  have  entered  the  Fifth  Avenue  world, 
had  he  not  known  of  similar  instances.  Doubtless,  she 
had  crept  into  society  by  virtue  of  her  ability  to  in- 
terest people  of  means  in  schemes  promising  large 
dividends. 

"  You  see,  Irving !  "  Mrs.  Vandever  exclaimed,  re- 
proachfully. "  I  beg  you  to  leave  us.  She  is  not 
strong  enough,  poor  lady.  She  would  spare  you  the 
history  —  won't  you  let  her?  She  has  promised  to 
write  everything.  Won't  you  go,  now?  " 

But  Irving  did  not  move. 

There  was  a  period  of  wretched  silence,  during  which 
Mrs.  Wyse  sought  to  rally  her  scattered  forces  that 
she  might  fortify  her  position  in  regard  both  to  Mrs. 
Vandever  and  to  Irving.  She  was,  in  truth,  one  of 
those  remarkable  women  who  occasionally  appear  in 
the  ranks  of  most  exclusive  circles,  one  scarcely  knows 
how.  A  step  seems  to  lift  them  from  obscure  poverty  to 
restless  affluence.  The  toilsome  way  is  hidden  in 
shadow.  Like  stray  comets,  brilliant,  unexpected  and 

[357] 


Something  Else 

unsubstantial,  they  burst  out  of  black  space,  and  for  a 
time  dazzle  all  eyes. 

Her  motives  for  seeking  to  discredit  Irving  were  not 
far  to  seek.  To  prevent  betrayal  of  her  past,  she  had 
felt  obliged  to  drive  him  from  the  field.  Hoping  to 
engage  J.  S.  Vandever  in  extensive  donations,  it  was 
necessary  to  eliminate  the  possibility  of  meeting  Irving 
in  the  Vandever  mansion.  But  for  Irving's  obstinacy, 
she  felt  that  she  must  have  succeeded.  What  is  more 
discrediting  than  a  father  so  "  unamiable  "  as  to  be- 
long to  a  gang  of  river-thieves?  These  thoughts,  oc- 
curring to  Irving,  produced  an  intelligent  smile. 

The  smile  might  have  discomposed  Mrs.  Wyse,  had 
she  not  already  been  cast  to  abject  depths.  And  yet, 
at  this  moment  of  terrible  danger,  she  did  not  despair. 
Her  rise  from  absolute  penury  to  the  functions  of  land- 
lady at  Gotham  Repose  had  been  due  to  the  same  never- 
tiring  ambition,  and  never-developed  moral  sense,  which 
had  carried  her  from  the  lodging-house  to  the  homes  of 
the  wealthy.  Her  plan  of  action  was  exceedingly 
simple,  yet  such  as  only  a  genius  can  execute:  Buy 
extravagantly,  pay  for  nothing.  Mrs.  Wyse  possessed 
this  genius  of  avoiding  payment,  and  now,  if  possible, 
she  was  determined  not  to  pay  for  her  misfortunes  at 
Gotham  Repose. 

"  I  understand,  Mrs.  Fenly,"  said  Irving,  finding 
that  she  was  mute,  "  that  you  are  conversant  with  my 
family  affairs.  Mrs.  Vandever  thinks  you  mentioned 
to  her  my  father's  name.  -I  'd  be  obliged  to  you  if 
you  'd  mention  it  to  me.  I  remember  your  saying, 

[358] 


The  Wife 

long  ago,  that  you  hoped  one  day  to  recollect  it.  For  it 
occurs  to  me  that  we  have  met  before."  He  smiled 
again. 

Mrs.  Wyse  had  recovered  from  the  physical  harm 
Irving's  presence  had  wrought,  but  the  mental  shock 
still  left  her  blindly  groping  for  safety.  When  such  a 
woman,  of  almost  infinite  resources,  comes  to  the  im- 
possible, the  breakdown  is  more  complete  than  in  less 
self-reliant  natures.  She  read  in  Irving's  eyes  a  cruel 
mocking  spirit,  that  meant  to  play  with  her  a  little 
while,  before  throwing  her  back  into  the  depths  of  the 
nether  world.  The  thought  that  he  meant  to  expose 
her  inspired  her  not  only  with  terror,  but  with  sudden 
rage  that  shook  her  slight  form  as  with  the  ague. 
She  hid  both  fear  and  wrath  behind  her  pallid  counte- 
nance. 

"  Mr.  Payne,"  she  faltered,  in  that  refined  and  in- 
distinct voice  that  reminded  him  of  her  Prince  of 
Wales,  "  you  need  not  be  downcast.  It  is  true  that 
your  father  is  not  a  worthy  man.  But  there  is  a 
small  fortune  involved,  nevertheless,  and  all  of  it  goes 
to  you,  every  dollar.  All  of  it,  I  say,  all!  It  is  as 
much  as  thousands.  Yes,  as  much  as  ten.  Let  me 
think:  Twenty  thousand.  At  another  time  I  will  ex- 
plain how  that  is.  The  fortune  is  yours,  Mr.  Payne. 
But  the  details  are  secret.  If  Mrs.  Vandever  will 
kindly  let  me  speak  to  you  alone  — " 

"  I  beg  Mrs.  Vandever  to  remain,"  cried  Irving. 
"  If  she  goes,  I  will  go  with  her,  and  leave  you  alone. 
For  I  want  Mrs.  Vandever  to  know  about  my  first  meet- 

[359] 


Something  Else 

ing  with  you.  Mrs.  Vandever  thinks  we  are  strangers, 
but  we  are  worse  than  that,  I  believe,  Mrs.  Fenly." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that  besought  and 
promised.  He  ought  to  know,  she  felt,  that  she  had  not 
sought  to  prejudice  Mrs.  Vandever  against  him,  out 
of  wanton  malice.  He  ought  to  know  that  both  could 
not  breathe  the  same  atmosphere.  She  had  not  told 
the  worst  about  Irving's  history;  only  enough  to  drive 
him  away.  She  repeated  coaxingly,  "  It  is  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  Mr.  Payne,  and  all  yours,  every 
penny.  Let  me  explain." 

But  her  penetrating  glance  told  her  that  this  bribe 
of  twenty  thousand  dollars  had  fallen  short  of  the 
enemy's  citadel.  Irving's  flag  was  still  flying  in  gay 
defiance.  Seeing  this,  she  rose,  yet  looked  again  in  a 
last  mute  appeal  for  mercy.  But  Irving  still  smiled  — 
that  cruel,  deep-cut  smile  that  had  never  before  visited 
his  face.  She  read  in  its  cold  light,  the  relentless 
judgment  of  one  who  thinks  he  sits  in  power.  It  fixed 
her  doom.  How  little  did  he  understand  that,  if  she 
fell,  she  meant  to  drag  him  down!  She  stretched  out 
her  arm,  and  pointed  a  finger  at  him,  like  a  bit  of  ivory, 
protruding  from  the  thin  black  sleeve.  Pointing  at  him, 
she  looked  at  Mrs.  Vandever,  and  said, 

"You  are  mistaken  in  thinking  I  mentioned  his  fa- 
ther's name.  If  I  'd  mentioned  it,  you  could  not  have 
forgotten."  The  slender,  hard  voice  was  without  the 
slightest  modulation.  "  The  thieves  of  the  dump-heaps 
—  the  Italian  brigands,  the  wretches  that  people  call 
the  *  Black  Handers  ' —  they  know  his  father  by  the 

[360] 


She  stretched  out  her  arm,  and  pointed  a  finger  at  him,  like 
a  hit  of  ivory,  protruding  from  the  thin  hlack  sleeve 


.'. 


The  Wife 

same  name  he  wore  when  he  was  your  first  husband. 
For  he  was  your  first  husband,  Mrs.  Vandever,  before 
he  went  to  live  with  the  off-scourings  of  the  East  Side. 
He  was  Dick  Arnold,  your  husband.  He  still  wears 
the  name;  he  is  still  Dick  Arnold  —  and  this  man's 
father."  She  continued  to  point  at  him,  contemptu- 
ously, all  her  fury  finding  vent  in  the  gesture  of  scorn. 

Mrs.  Vandever's  hands  had  gone  to  her  bloodless 
face.  They  struggled  at  her  throat,  as  if  to  tear  away 
some  suffocating  grasp.  Until  the  last  moment,  she 
had  been  thinking  only  of  Irving  Payne.  Suddenly  she 
found  herself  engulfed  in  the  maelstrom  that  was  suck- 
ing him  down.  Her  first  wild  impression  of  his  re- 
semblance to  her  first  husband  —  why  had  she  suffered 
it  to  be  effaced  by  the  passing  glamour  of  other  lights 
and  shadows?  Her  first  presentiment  was  true. 

But  Irving,  bewildered,  dazed,  could  only  cry  out, 
"  Mrs.  Wyse!  "  He  flung  the  word  at  her  as  if  it  had 
been  a  stone,  to  beat  her  down.  "  Impostor!  "  That 
was  his  second  blow.  His  eyes  blazed,  at  sight  of  Mrs. 
Vandever's  suffering.  "  You  think  " —  he  renewed  the 
attack  — "  that  you  can  escape  your  own  crimes,  by 
piling  up  falsehoods  about  other  people.  Impostor  I  " 

Mrs.  Wyse  stood  as  if  she  did  not  know  that  she  had 
been  struck.  Suddenly  Irving's  wrath  gave  way  to  an- 
other emotion,  to  sudden  doubts,  self-questionings. 
"Dick  Arnold?" — he  said  to  himself  in  questioning 
mood.  The  tramp? 

Mrs.  Vandever,  reeling,  caught  blindly  at  the  nearest 
chair.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  refined  graces  and 

[361] 


Something  Else 

sacred  emotions  of  life  and  love,  had  been  stripped  bare 
of  beauty  and  modesty.  Those  illusions,  cherished  in 
seclusion,  were  dragged  forth  by  a  prying  woman,  and 
revealed  in  their  poor  frailty.  In  self-communions,  she 
had  always  held  herself  a  woman  apart  in  misfortune; 
this  Mrs.  Fenly,  or  Mrs.  Wyse,  classed  her  with  all 
women  whose  husbands  had  proved  untrue.  This 
woman  of  two  names  and  two  careers,  but  with  no  heart, 
made  her,  by  the  mere  breath  of  ordinary  speech,  one 
of  a  class  exploited  in  the  smiling  woodcuts  of  the 
daily  press. 

The  little  adventuress  viewed,  with  composure,  the 
look  of  horror  upon  Mrs.  Vandever's  face.  She  neither 
pitied  nor  despised.  Turning  savagely  upon  Irving, 
she  said,  "  Call  me  what  you  will.  At  least  I  have  a 
name  —  you  would  say  I  have  two,  or  more.  Very 
well !  You  have  none !  Need  I  remind  Mrs.  Vandever 
of  the  time  her  first  husband  eloped  with  a  girl  of  very 
good  family?  She  hasn't  forgotten,  I  daresay.  Pos- 
sibly she  remembers  that  she  would  n't  sue  for  divorce, 
because  she  wanted  to  make  the  couple  doubly  guilty. 
Yes!  and  was  determined  that  the  child  born  to  them 
should  be  reared  in  dishonor." 

"No!"  cried  Mrs.  Vandever  vehemently.  "That 
was  not  the  reason.  I  did  not  think  of  the  child ;  only 
of  my  husband." 

"  But  it  can't  be  true,"  faltered  Irving,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other.  "  I  feel  that  it  can't  be  true."  His 
heart  was  beating,  as  if  about  to  burst.  How  could  the 
story  be  true,  when  he  had  never  felt  a  suspicion? 

[  362  ] 


The  Wife 

"  Mrs.  Vandever,  you  can't  believe  anything  that  woman 
says !  She  's  not  what  she  pretends.  Would  n't  father 
and  mother  Payne  have  known?  " 

His  voice  failed  him.  Out  of  the  blackness  of  sud- 
den doubts,  he  seemed  to  see  a  face  rising  —  the  face 
of  Arnold.  It  seemed  to  ask  him :  "  Can  you  deny 
me?" 

"Believe  her?"  faltered  Mrs.  Vandever.  "Yes. 
She  has  only  spoken  my  first  intuition.  I  know  she 
tells  the  truth.  You  remember  what  I  said,  at  Briar- 
cliff? —  how  you  reminded  me  —  how  I  asked  if  your 
father  lived? "  She  wrung  her  hands.  "  Poor  Ir- 
ving! When  I  look  at  you,  I  see  my  first  husband  — 
Claude's  father,  and  yours.  Irving,  you  who  are  not 
my  son,  why  are  you  here?  Why  are  such  truths  in 
the  world  —  and  you,  the  son  of  that  woman!  " 

Irving  could  not  utter  a  word.  It  was  all  true. 
His  mind  brought  back  various  scenes  in  which  Dick 
Arnold  had  always  spoken,  and  looked,  paternally. 
And  his  feeling  toward  Claude  —  it  had  been  the  sense 
of  brotherhood.  Yes,  it  was  all  true;  he  was  the  son 
of  Arnold  and  — "  that  woman." 

Mrs.  Wyse  slipped  from  the  room.  It  was  an  evi- 
dence of  their  profound  absorption,  that  the  adventuress 
escaped  from  the  house  before  either  recollected  her 
existence.  Irving  was  trying  to  comprehend  what  this 
would  mean  to  him,  how  much  of  shame  and  sorrow. 
And  he  wondered,  too,  how  Mrs.  Vandever  regarded  him, 
the  son  of  her  first  husband. 

She  spoke  in  a  whisper,  holding  her  hands  before  her 
[363] 


Something  Else 

face.  "  I  loved  your  father,  Irving.  But  he  never 
really  cared  for  me,  I  suppose.  One  can  never  be  sure. 
I  thought  he  wanted  me  for  myself  alone.  But  no ;  he 
loved  somebody  else,  and  went  away  with  her,  and  broke 
my  heart.  But  I  loved  him.  Claude  grew  to  manhood ; 
I  still  loved  him.  And  to-day,  Irving  —  to-day  — " 
her  voice  grew  passionate,  "  to-day,  I  love  him,  not  as 
the  man  that  Mrs.  Wyse  described,  but  as  the  man  I 
knew.  And  yet  —  he  never  —  you  understand,  Irving? 
—  never  —  he  never  loved  me !  "  Her  voice  died  away, 
without  tears. 

"  Mrs.  Vandever,"  he  burst  forth,  his  hands  clenched, 
"if  I  could—" 

"  If  you  could  have  known  him !  "  she  said,  brokenly, 
"  as  I  knew  him  then,  the  most  charming  companion, 
the  gayest  friend,  and,  as  I  imagined,  the  most  devoted 
lover,  with  his  irresistible  laughing  eyes  — " 

"  Mrs.  Vandever,  I  am  his  son ;  and  as  his  son,  I 
would  give  my  life  to  atone  to  you  for  his  desertion. 
But  as  the  son  of  — *  that  woman  ' —  I  cannot  even 
come  to  you  to  offer  you  sympathy,  or  help." 

Then  Mrs.  Vandever  cried  out,  as  if  to  answer  him, 
but  a  sob  alone  was  audible.  When  she  could  speak, 
she  said,  "  But  I  will  come  to  you !  "  And  she  came  to 
him. 

It  may  have  been  an  expression  of  the  old  dramatic 
nature  that  prompted  him  to  sink  upon  his  knee  before 
her.  She  touched  his  hair  with  a  pitying  hand,  while 
her  tears  fell  upon  his  face. 

[364] 


The  Wife 

"  The  son  of  '  that  woman  '  cannot  ask  you  to  for- 
give his  father.  Still.—" 

"  Still,"  came  her  broken  voice,  "  I  can  do  even  that." 
"  He  could  not  have  hoped  for  so  much.     You  may 
be  sure  I  will  tell  him." 

"  And  you,  Irving  —  can  you  forgive  him?  " 
Irving  rose,  somewhat  unsteadily.     All  things  seemed 
to  swim  before  his  vision  —  the  beautiful,  sad  face,  the 
quiet  library  with  its  mellow  lights,  the  unknown  paths 
of  the  future. 

"  I  cannot  tell  —  yet,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  all  so 
new,  and  wonderful,  and  dark.  I  cannot  tell."  The 
deep  melancholy  of  her  face  moved  him  to  impotent  re- 
grets. "  If  it  had  never  been !  "  he  exclaimed.  Her 
very  words  came  to  him  and  he  used  them,  unconscious 
of  the  repetition,  "  Why  are  such  truths  in  the  world?  " 
Then  before  him  rose  again  that  face  that  had  won  his 
friendship,  that  had  moved  him  to  a  strange  sweet  sense 
of  intimate  comradeship.  "  But  he  is  my  father,"  he 
added. 


[365] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   AMBUSCADE 

AS  Irving  passed  beyond  the  bronze  gates,  an 
electric  omnibus  approached.     For  the  bene- 
fit of  the  sight-seers  who  crowded  every  seat, 
a  man  was  calling  through  his  megaphone :  "  This  im- 
mense building  on  your  right  is  the  residence  of  the 
celebrated  J.  S.  Vandever.     It  cost  the  enormous  sum 
of—" 

Every  eye  was  glued  upon  Irving,  as  if  to  extract 
from  his  personal  appearance,  some  notion  of  the  life 
peculiar  to  multimillionaires.  Irving  was  so  bewildered 
by  what  he  had  just  learned,  that  his  face  wore  the  de- 
tached expression  suited  to  his  part  as  the  associate  of 
money-kings.  He  still  looked  half-stunned  when  giving 
the  direction  to  the  cab-driver  — "  Forty-second 
Street."  And  why  Forty-second  Street?  Why  any- 
where? Why  anything?  His  hopes  and  ambitions, 
that  is  to  say,  all  that  had  grown  to  represent  to  him  life 
itself,  seemed  to  have  come  abruptly  to  an  end. 

Yet  the  period  of  time  was  brief,  indeed,  it  might  be 
measured  by  moments,  when  his  naturally  buoyant 
spirits  paused  at  their  lowest  point,  swung  thither  by  the 
blow  of  his  parentage.  He  divined  that  the  Vandever 
portals  had  closed  upon  him,  forever ;  fortunately  those 

[366] 


The  Ambuscade 

portals  did  not  inclose  what  he  held  vital  and  dearest. 
Within  such  walls,  scenes  of  elegance  and  luxury  had 
once  appealed  to  him  as  the  modern  Eden  in  the  world's 
wilderness.  But  may  there  not  have  been  certain  days 
sweeter  to  Adam  and  Eve,  in  their  toilsome  wanderings, 
than  many  a  day  in  Paradise? 

Irving,  while  meditating  upon  the  recent  scene  in  the 
library  found  mingling  with  his  bewilderment,  a  vague 
surprise  that  he  did  not  experience  the  emotions  one 
is  conventionally  supposed  to  feel  under  such  circum- 
stances. In  the  face  of  the  revelations  that  his  father 
was  a  tramp,  and  possibly  one  of  a  band  of  river- 
thieves  ;  and  that  his  mother  was,  to  speak  no  more 
particularly,  "  that  woman  "  who  had  supplanted  Mrs. 
Vandever  in  her  husband's  affections  —  in  the  face  of 
these  revelations  so  recent  and  so  discrediting,  Irving, 
nevertheless,  found  himself  the  same  man  he  was  yester- 
day, the  man  he  would  be  to-morrow.  The  world  had 
changed;  but  he  was  the  same.  Whatever  his  parents' 
history,  he  was  what  he  had  been  without  them.  That 
is  what  surprised  him.  It  seemed  that  he  ought  to  feel 
a  certain  unworthiness,  a  deeper  shame,  a  giving-away 
of  resisting  forces.  But  if  such  a  feeling  had  been  his, 
it  was  quickly  dissipated.  In  the  old  life,  it  would  have 
been  different,  of  course.  At  that  time,  what  people 
thought,  and  how  he  could  win  and  hold  the  admiration 
of  the  upper  classes,  meant  all.  Now  it  was  a  question 
of  what  he  was  in  himself.  He  had  entered  an  arena 
where  the  shades  of  one's  ancestors  do  not  come  to  do 
battle. 

[367] 


Something  Else 

As  for  his  mother,  whatever  her  name  and  condition, 
whether  alive  or  dead,  he  would  not  seek  to  know.  To 
Mrs.  Vandever,  she  was  only  "  that  woman."  To  Dick 
Arnold,  she  must  be  but  a  memory  of  the  dead,  or  a 
forgotten  face  among  those  once  known;  let  her,  then, 
remain  in  mystery.  His  mind  did  not  reach  out  farther 
in  the  direction  of  his  mother.  There  were  many  paths 
in  his  mind,  but  across  the  mother-thought,  stood  a  high 
wall.  He  would  make  no  effort  to  go  around  it ;  would 
the  world  always  be  peeping  behind  that  cold  barricade, 
to  discover  the  secret  of  his  origin?  No;  at  least  not 
in  the  world  he  meant  to  inhabit ;  the  world  wherein  every 
man  stands  for  himself. 

Irving  did  not  disguise  from  himself  that,  in  any  other 
sphere  than  that  of  the  world  of  business,  of  action,  of 
achievement,  his  destiny  was  sealed;  in  the  sphere  of 
Jerry  Vandever,  for  instance.  In  a  sense,  he  was  an 
outcast  from  society.  Well,  so  was  that  tramp,  that 
wandering  Dick  Arnold,  his  father.  Whatever  the 
crimes  of  Arnold,  however  cruel  his  desertion  of  his 
wife,  he  was  bound  to  Irving  not  only  by  the  tie  of 
blood,  but  by  the  destiny  of  a  common  ostracism. 

The  first  definite  conclusion  reached  by  Irving,  after 
the  terrible  shock,  was  to  seek  out  his  father  and  pre- 
vail upon  him  to  lodge  with  him,  giving  up  his  nomadic 
life ;  to  return,  not,  of  course,  to  his  former  friends,  but 
to  his  former  self.  He  knew,  now,  what  had  drawn  him 
irresistibly  to  the  disreputable  occupant  of  the  tene- 
ment. It  was  the  congeniality  of  spirit,  based  upon 
common  blood.  At  the  thought  of  Arnold,  the  glow 

[368] 


The  Ambuscade 

returned  to  his  heart.  He  felt  a  great  loneliness  as  he 
rehiembered  the  enforced  loneliness  of  his  father.  Ar- 
nold was  a  tramp  because  of  Irving.  He  had  given  up 
all  prospects,  that  Irving  might  not  learn  the  secret 
of  his  birth.  He  must  have  found  a  fearful  punishment 
in  the  relinquishment  of  all  he  held  dear.  Whether  or 
not  he  had  atoned  for  the  past,  was  beside  the  question. 
However  unworthy  that  hand,  the  young  man  yearned 
to  grasp  it.  Arnold,  then,  must,  if  possible,  be  found. 
After  the  meeting,  plans  could  be  formed.  Why  could 
not  these  two  live  together  contentedly?  The  social 
world  had  already  forgotten  Arnold ;  it  need  never  know 
Irving. 

If  Irving  had  needed  confirmation  in  his  general  views 
of  the  future,  he  might  have  received  them  from  J.  S. 
Vandever.  At  Forty-second  Street,  he  left  •  the  cab, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  here.  Could  he  hope 
to  find  his  employer  still  at  the  office?  It  was  late,  but 
the  financier  had  failed  to  reach  home  at  the  time  agreed 
upon  with  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse.  Irving  risked  the  chance. 
At  Broad  Street,  he  found  Mr.  Vandever  getting  into 
his  runabout. 

Irving  had  not  selected  his  words,  only  the  idea,  which 
he  launched  as  best  he  might :  "  Mr.  Vandever,  I  have 
just  made  a  discovery  about  myself.  The  first  husband 
of  Mrs.  Vandever  —  well,  I  learn  that  he  is  my  father." 

Mr.  Vandever  knitted  his  brows,  making  an  intense 
effort  at  mental  readjustment.  "Well?"  he  said, 
sharply. 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you  at  once,"  Irving  said,  doubt- 
24  [  369  ] 


Something  Else 

fully.  "  It 's  your  right  to  know.  I  did  n't  know  what 
difference  it  would  make  to  you." 

Mr.  Vandever's  foot  was  upon  the  step.  He  said,  as 
he  got  into  the  vehicle,  "  It  would  not  seem  to  place 
you  upon  a  footing  in  the  family." 

Irving  found  himself  near  the  verge  of  the  declivity 
that  leads  to  a  smile.  "  Exactly  the  opposite,"  he  re- 
plied. "  And  if  it  makes  a  difference  to  you  — " 

"  Fortunately,"  said  J.  S.  Vandever,  with  his  usual 
briskness  of  manner,  "  I  have  employed  you,  not  your 
father.  Was  that  all?" 

"  No.  You  see,  Mr.  Vandever,  it  would  be  awkward, 
going  to  the  house.  There  'd  always  be  the  chance  of 
meeting  Mrs.  Vandever.  Those  miserable  threads  of 
my  past  —  there  's  no  way  to  unravel  them." 

"  Time  lost,  to  try,"  said  the  other,  succinctly.  "  Cut 
'em  away;  let  'em  drift  with  the  tide.  But  I  under- 
stand; you  don't  want  to  be  always  reminding  my  wife 
—  well,  of  course.  We  '11  manage.  You  need  n't  go 
up  there  any  more.  Did  you  get  those  memoranda? 
All  right ;  bring  'em  to  the  office,  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing. Oh  —  did  you  see  a  Mrs.  Fenly  at  the  house?  " 

Irving  had  seen  her.     His  admission  was  grim. 

J.  S.  Vandever  divined  antipathy.  "  I  see.  You 
mistrust  her.  All  right, —  I  was  going  to  warn  you. 
Instead  of  meeting  her  in  the  library,  I  've  been  look- 
ing her  up.  Better  leave  her  schemes  alone."  Mr. 
Vandever  was  driven  away. 

Irving,  who  was  expected  to  dinner  at  Dr.  Adams's, 
repaired  thither,  meantime  thinking  over  the  possible 

[370] 


The  Ambuscade 

means  of  getting  in  touch  with  his  father.  The  brief 
interview  with  J.  S.  Vandever  had  left  him  feeling 
strangely  invigorated.  The  financier's  dry  practicality 
had  imparted  that  sort  of  hope  which  is  doubly  pleasing, 
because  it  not  only  promises  well  for  the  future,  but  em- 
bodies the  working-plan  for  a  realization  of  those 
promises.  He  was  young,  strong,  and  determined ;  and 
every  one  of  these  qualities  had  been  accentuated,  as  if 
Mr.  Vandever  had  called  attention  to  them. 

His  belief  in  the  death  of  his  parents  had  not  been 
altogether  a  source  of  melancholy.  Until  his  first  meet- 
ing with  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse,  there  had  always  been  the 
possibility  of  an  undesirable  parent,  after  twenty  years 
of  neglect,  suddenly  appearing  to  ruin  his  prospects. 
Mrs.  Wyse's  story  had  proved  a  positive  relief;  it  had 
enlarged  his  outlook  upon  life,  because  it  had  freed  him 
from  sinister  apprehensions ;  and  now,  the  startling 
knowledge  of  his  father's  existence  and  identity,  counter- 
balanced the  mystery  of  a  living  and  unknown  mother. 
It  had  been  but  an  hour  or  so  since  discovering  his 
relationship  to  Dick  Arnold ;  yet  his  desire  to  meet  that 
erratic  acquaintance,  that  fugitive  from  society,  that 
father  in  disguise,  had  strengthened  until  it  was  the 
dominant  purpose  of  his  heart. 

But  how  could  he  find  the  homeless  tramp?  Possibly 
some  one  at  the  tenement  might  be  able  to  supply  a  clue, 
though  that  was  by  no  means  probable.  As  soon  as 
dinner  was  ended,  he  would  set  about  his  search. 

If  his  air  of  preoccupation  was  observed  by  his  two 
friends,  they  attributed  it,  probably,  to  another  cause. 

[371] 


Something  Else 

At  any  rate,  another  cause  was  given  before  they  sat 
down  to  table.  Mr.  Burl  had  just  received  a  letter  from 
Winifred,  which  he  offered  to  read  aloud  to  Dr.  Adams. 

"  At  least,  if  it  won't  bore  Irving,"  said  the  artist, 
looking  sternly  at  the  young  man,  as  if  he  suspected 
him  of  criminal  incapacity. 

Winifred's  name  always  came  like  a  breath  of  in- 
vigorating air  from  some  fragrant  field.  It  seemed  to 
Irving,  whenever  he  heard  it,  that  his  own  breath  found 
a  deeper  capacity.  The  letter  was  read.  There  was  a 
good  deal  about  Italy,  more  about  certain  pictures,  a 
few  words  that  hinted  at  an  immediate  return,  and  some- 
thing about  Irving.  Naturally  the  part  referring  to 
Irving  seemed  to  him  far  more  important  than  all  the 
rest. 

Mr.  Burl  read  the  words  with  the  most  prosaic  voice 
imaginable;  if  the  phrases  could  have  lost  their  signifi- 
cance, they  would  certainly  have  lost  it  in  the  artist's 
dry  throat. 

"  You  ask  if  I  am  not  astounded,"  so  Winifred  wrote. 
"  You  ask  if  I  am  not  completely  bewildered  over  the 
change  you  say  you  have  found  in  Mr.  Payne.  You 
say  you  think  I  shall  be  incredulous  about  that  change. 
To  all  that,  I  say,  No.  And  there  is  something  you 
do  not  seem  to  have  thought  of,  Uncle  Chris.  It  is 
that  which  astonishes  me.  Because  you  know  very  well 
that  the  accidental  comes  more  or  less  into  everybody's 
life.  I  don't  see  any  use  in  saying  that  if  so-and-so 
had  n't  happened,  this  man  or  that  would  n't  have  been 
the  man  he  is  to-day.  Because,  so-and-so  invariably 

[372] 


The  Ambuscade 

happens.  To-day  the  sun  shines;  to-morrow  it  rains. 
If  I  had  n't  been  born  with  the  artistic  sense,  should  I 
ever  have  painted  Agostino?  And  should  I  ever  have 
painted  Agostino  if  Mr.  Payne  had  n't  brought  him  to 
me?  Well,  it's  just  that  way  about  the  other. 
Chances  come, —  come  to  every  one  on  this  earth,  not 
only  once,  but  with  the  air  we  breathe.  Sometimes  they 
find  a  man  waiting;  sometimes  a  woman.  It  is  the 
waiting  that  must  not  be  accidental.  Happenings  are 
often  of  chance;  the  man  must  never  be.  So  much  for 
your  argument,  Uncle  Chris,  and  if  I  have  n't  con- 
vinced you  here,  I  '11  soon  conquer  you  face  to  face." 

"  This  is  vague,"  observed  Dr.  Adams.  "  What 's  the 
reference?  " 

Irving,  who  divined  that  Winifred  had  been  writing 
in  his  defence,  was  inclined  to  extravagant  gratitude. 
His  emotion  was  tempered  by  the  reflection  that  the 
dark  story  of  his  parentage  must  quench  the  light  in 
her  frank  eyes.  Artist  though  she  was,  Winifred  be- 
longed to  the  world  of  Jerry  Vandever ;  and  though  she 
did  not  choose  to  occupy  a  place  in  it,  it  was  not  likely 
that  she  had  escaped  the  influence  of  its  traditions.  The 
reflection  caused  his  face  to  settle  more  unalterably  into 
its  new  sternness,  its  resolute  determination.  Whatever 
Winifred  might  feel  concerning  him,  his  father  must,  if 
possible,  be  raised  from  self-elected  indigence  to  a 
place  of  companionship  at  his  side. 

Mr.  Burl  read  the  letter  to  the  last  word,  then  folded 
it  slowly.  "  I  will  explain,"  he  said,  lighting  his  pipe. 
"  After  telling  Sunbeam  how  Irving  had  developed  from 

[  373  ] 


Something  Else 

a  young  man  without  aims,  without  direction,  into  a 
young  man  with  a  very  decided  direction  toward  suc- 
cess; and  how  he  has  ceased  to  toil  from  necessity, 
and  is  toiling  from  choice  —  you  don't  object,  I  hope?  " 

"  Not   at   all,"   said  Irving,   gravely. 

"  You  admit  your  indefiniteness  of  former  days  ?  " 

"  I  do."     He  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  And  you  '11  admit  that,  thanks  to  your  slave's  of- 
fice work  of  the  past  six  months,  you  are  in  a  fair  way 
to  become  the  master  of  other  slaves  of  the  desk,  I  sup- 
pose? " 

"  Mr.  Vandever  has  treated  me  with  unusual  partial- 
ity," Irving  admitted. 

"  There  's  the  point,"  said  Mr.  Burl,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  to  aim  the  stem  at  the  young  man. 
"  Exactly  the  point  I  made  to  Sunbeam !  There  's  the 
whole  gist  of  my  argument.  I  was  writing  to  Winifred 
about  you,  in  full  detail  —  not  that  you  are  of  any 
particular  interest  to  either  of  us,  but  because  you  were 
useful  as  a  skeleton  for  my  vital  theme.  I  clothed  you 
with  the  flesh  and  blood  of  my  philosophy.  I  trust 
you  understand." 

"  I  realize  that  I  am  nothing,"  said  Irving,  with  ad- 
mirable humility. 

"  Which,"  spoke  up  Dr.  Adams,  with  seeming  aus- 
terity, "  advances  you  one  notch  higher  than  Chris  will 
ever  attain." 

"  And  I  told  Winifred,"  said  Mr.  Burl,  nodding  to 
Irving,  and  ignoring  the  other,  "  that,  although  you  have 
taken  a  new  view  of  life,  and  have  resolved  to  fill  a  real 

[374] 


The  Ambuscade 

place  in  it,  your  resolve  would  have  done  you  precious 
little  good  but  for  that  accident  of  the  Briarcliff  races. 
If  you  had  n't  known  Jerry  Vandever  —  not  in  itself  • 
any  special  merit,  I  believe  —  and  if  you  had  n't  gone 
to  the  races  to  be  with  her  —  rather  a  doubtful  j  aunt, 
let  us  say  —  and  if  Claude  Vandever  had  n't  got  drunk, 
and  allowed  himself  to  be  knocked  down  in  the  crowd  — 
quite  reprehensible,  this,  eh,  Lew?  Eh,  Irving?  Very 
good!  You  say  nothing.  And  why?  Because  there 
is  nothing  to  say  except  what  I  have  just  said. 

"  Very  good.  I  will  continue ;  I  will  say  still  more. 
If  these  accidents  had  not  preceded  the  knocking-down 
of  Claude,  there  would  have  been  no  need  of  blood-trans- 
fusion. Had  you  not  given  of  your  blood  to  that  young 
scapegrace,  J.  S.  Vandever  would  never  have  taken  the 
least  notice  in  the  world  of  any  Irving  Payne.  Now  all 
this  I  explained  to  Winifred,  showing  her  that  though 
you  are  already  beginning  to  make  yourself  felt  among 
men  of  affairs,  it  is  through  no  particular  merit  of  yours, 
but  has  come  about  from  forces  outside  of  yourself." 

"  You  were  very  kind,"  murmured  Irving,  hypocriti- 
cally. 

"  And  very  illogical,"  remarked  Dr.  Adams,  "  as 
Winifred  has  had  the  goodness  to  point  out  to  him. 
For  if  you  will  recall  the  careers  of  all  great  men,  at 
least  of  all  Americans,  you  will  find  time  and  again  in 
their  careers,  where  the  accidental  chance  was  seized 
and  turned  to  vital  account." 

"  Anybody  can  permit  his  veins  to  be  opened," 
growled  Mr.  Burl.  "The  blood  will  flow  of  itself. 

[375] 


Something  Else 

Anybody  can  drift  to  success,  if  the  current  flows  that 
way.  There  should  at  least  be  some  sort  of  choosing 
between  uphill  and  down !  " 

Was  Mr.  Burl  trying  to  find  out  whether  an  oppor- 
tunity had  been  given  to  Irving  to  ally  himself  with 
Claude's  gay  and  irresponsible  companions,  and  whether 
he  had  chosen  between  Claude  and  Claude's  step-father? 
Possibly  he  suspected  that  Claude,  though  reckless  and 
unstable,  was  generous  and  grateful,  and  must,  from  his 
abundance,  have  made  Irving  some  glittering  offer. 
But  Irving  had  already  attained  that  position  wherein 
one  is  not  upheld  by  praise,  but  by  consciousness  of  the 
right  to  hold  it.  So  he  said  nothing. 

He  wished  that  Winifred  had  known,  however.  He 
wished  she  might  know  whatever  of  good  there  was  in 
him;  it  was  a  gracious  privilege  to  be  thought  well  of 
by  Winifred.  But  however  well  she  might  think  of  him 
—  even  if  she  should  learn  of  his  "  choosing  between 
uphill  and  down,"  wha't  would  it  avail?  Sooner  or 
later  she  must  be  told  that  his  father  was  Dick  Arnold, 
the  tramp;  and  that  his  mother  was — ? 

When  Irving  passed  Madison  Park,  on  his  way  to- 
ward the  East  Side  tenement,  he  was,  all  unconsciously, 
again  choosing  between  the  easy  and  the  difficult,  the 
life  of  purpose  and  the  life  of  evasion.  The  choice  was 
unconscious;  he  did  not  consider  an  alternative.  The 
easiest  thing  in  his  future  was  to  let  Dick  Arnold  re- 
main in  obscurity.  Arnold  would  never  voluntarily 
cross  his  path  again.  Why  not  let  him  lie  in  shadow 
until  the  end?  His  mother,  if  living,  would  doubtless 

[376] 


The  Ambuscade 

hold  herself  secluded,  as  she  had  always  held  herself. 
Conditions  had  not  really  changed.  He  had  thought  his 
parents  dead;  they  were  still  dead,  to  him.  The  only 
change  was  in  himself. 

But  it  is  the  change  in  oneself  that  changes  the  world. 
When  one  becomes  a  new  man,  the  world  is  again  in  its 
Spring.  Who  might  not  have  felt  toward  Dick  Arnold 
a  repugnance,  a  sense  of  terrible  injustice,  a  fierce  anger, 
because  of  what  had  taken  place  some  twenty  years  and 
more  ago  ?  Who  might  not  have  cast  off  such  a  father, 
not  only  because  of  the  past  sin,  but  of  the  present 
ignominy?  Whoever  might,  Irving  might  not.  It  was 
a  matter  of  feeling,  no  doubt,  which,  in  turn,  was  a 
matter  of  temperament;  but,  in  his  case,  at  any  rate, 
that  temperament  itself  was  partly  a  matter  of  develop- 
ment. This  chance,  too,  as  Winifred  had  divined, 
found  a  man  waiting. 

At  the  tenement  nobody  knew  anything  about  Dick 
Arnold.  There  were  some  children  who  remembered 
him,  children  —  how  bony,  dirty,  and  ragged !  —  for 
whom  he  used  to  play  his  violin,  that  they  might  dance 
defiance  at  squalor  and  poverty,  making  the  noisy  street 
sound  forth  its  note  of  laughter.  The  tramp  had  gone 
away  a  long,  long  time  ago  —  ages !  He  had  said  he 
would  come  again,  perhaps,  to  make  more  music  in  the 
street  —  free  music,  you  know ;  and  sometimes  with  pen- 
nies. He  used  to  read  a  good  deal  —  up  yonder  in  that 
room  —  you  see?  —  where  the  new  plasterer's  family 
live  now,  and  where  the  street-cleaner  was  arrested  last 
week  for  beating  his  wife  one  time  too  often.  The  books 

[377] 


Something  Else 

were  all  paper-backed ;  when  he  left,  he  had  them  hauled 
away  in  a  cart,  perhaps  to  peddle  them,  nobody  knows. 
This,  it  appears,  is  the  extent  of  our  knowledge;  and 
— "  Gimme  a  nickel,  mister !  "  Also,  "  Gimme  a  dime !  " 

It  did  not  seem  much  use  to  go  to  Chartier's  restau- 
rant, but  no  shred  of  chance  should  be  despised.  It  was 
more  than  six  months  since  Arnold  had  played  in  the 
meagre  orchestra  of  the  little  French  eating-place.  Ar- 
nold? But  so  many  come  and  go!  Irving  reminded 
Chartier  of  the  night  when  he  took  Arnold  to  the  studio 
in  Greenwich  Village,  to  hear  Monsieur  du  Pays  sing. 

So  that  was  Arnold?  But  he  left  the  service  that 
very  night.  And  Monsieur  du  Pays?  Only  le  bon 
Dieu  knows  what  came  forth  from  his  gaping  throat 
one  night,  as  he  stood  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of 
violins,  knives,  and  forks  —  certes,  it  was  no  sound  of 
melody,  no  stipulated  tenor-note.  "  A  shriek,  Monsieur, 
a  howl, —  je  na  sais  pas  —  what  the  devil !  "  Neither 
French  nor  English  can  put  it  in  words.  But  that  Ar- 
nold —  yes,  one  now  remembers.  But  he  was  one  never 
to  be  depended  upon;  he  might  come,  or  he  might  not, 
and  there  was  no  way  to  hold  him  to  his  job;  he  was 
as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  but  he  did  not  care.  What 
would  you?  When  one  is  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse, 
but  does  not  care,  you  can  get  no  hold  upon  him,  the 
trap  is  baited  in  vain. 

Irving  reflected  that  possibly  Monsieur  du  Pays  might 
know  something,  which  was  almost  incredible.  Were 
the  Du  Pays  still  lodging  at  Gotham  JRepose?  That, 
too,  was  improbable.  It  was  half  a  year  since  those 
steps  of  stone,  like  broken  teeth,  had  laughed  at  the 

[378] 


The  Ambuscade 

young  man.  Their  grin  was  unaltered  as  he  entered 
"  Lee's  Triangle."  Ah,  the  long-ago !  Irving  applied 
at  the  door,  pensive,  even  sad.  Why  must  days  pass 
away,  carrying  with  them  a  part  of  yourself?  The  days 
would  not  so  much  matter,  if  you  remained. 

Yes,  happily,  the  Du  Pays  still  lodged  at  Gotham  Re- 
pose. The  second  floor,  front?  No,  sir,  the  back 
room,  if  you  please.  Aha,  that  treacherous  throat ! 

To  the  second  floor  back,  then,  Irving  ascended,  and 
was  received  with  empressement  by  both  Monsieur  and 
Madame  du  Pays.  Monsieur's  hair  was  as  blonde  as 
Irving  had  ever  seen  it,  and  Madame's  confidence  in  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  his  throat  was  as  optimistic.  Each 
looked  a  little  older,  a  little  shabbier,  a  little  more  care- 
worn. Monsieur  had  just  "  accepted  a  position  "  as 
"  vocal-expositor  "  at  a  moving  picture-show.  There 
would  be  one  picture  to  a  verse  of  song  —  a  beautiful 
moon,  perhaps,  in  a  sky  so  blue,  or  a  maiden  with  a 
tree ;  the  songs,  too,  were  full  of  color.  It  was  like  be- 
ginning life  all  over  again,  less  gloriously.  But  to- 
morrow there  would  be  a  move  to  the  front  room. 
Vicissitudes  of  fortune,  are  they  not  principally  a  mat- 
ter of  location? 

And  poor  Jessie  Tiff!  What!  have  you  not  heard, 
then?  Yes,  poor  Jessie  is  —  no,  not  dead;  married. 
An  unfortunate  marriage?  That  is  as  it  may  be.  It 
is  as  you  regard  it.  Poor  Jessie  has  emerged  from  her 
roseate  dream  of  that  —  how-you-say  ?  —  sporty,  classy, 
noble,  handsome  young  man,  very  rich, —  so  she  had  con- 
fided to  Madame;  had  emerged  from  that  dream  of 
Millionaire  Row,  into  the  glaring  reality  of  a  Wedging. 

[379] 


Something  Else 

"  Wedging  was  devoted  to  her,"  said  Irving,  patiently 
biding  his  time. 

"  Tout  le  monde  le  dit"  cried  Madame,  volubly,  "  but 
it  seems  very  sad.  It  was  for  me  to  marry  my  dream, 
me.  But  to  marry  Wedging,  mon  Dieu!  it  was  to 
murder  one's  imagination." 

As  to  the  object  of  Irving's  visit,  what  was  to  be  said? 
Du  Pays  remembered  Arnold;  had  been  associated  with 
him  at  another  restaurant,  following  discharge  from 
Chartier's ;  had  sung  to  Arnold's  violin. 

"  Arnold  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  companions 
in  all  the  world,"  said  Du  Pays,  finding  that  Irving 
wanted  to  talk  about  the  tramp-musician.  "  He  was 
as  full  of  gay  souvenirs  and  tingling  anecdotes  as  his 
coat  was  full  of  holes.  Every  evening  when  our  work 
was  done,  he  would  invite  us  to  go  with  him  to  one  of 
his  favorite  cafes  —  one  in  which  he  had  never  played, 
never  —  to  help  him  to  spend  all  he  had  earned.  On 
such  nights  as  I  could  be  persuaded  to  remain  away  from 
Angelique,  the  hours  were  devoured.  Or  rather  they 
were  consumed  like  a  flash,  in  the  light  of  his  jolly  laugh- 
ter, his  smiles  of  bonhomie.  There  was  a  haze  of  the 
day-bef ore-yesterday  over  all  he  said;  I  smile  now, 
when  I  remember,  a  smile  of  tenderness.  I  knew  him, 
in  that  way,  .only  two  weeks,  yet  see  how  I  bring  him 
before  you.  He  went  away  —  he  told  me,  once,  that 
he  tired  of  everything,  even  of  me  —  ah,  the  good  Ar- 
nold !  But  he  was  like  a  newspaper  dated  in  the  yellow 
past,  telling  about  all  that  had  happened  in  that  yellow 
and  faded  past,  with  not  a  word  about  what  you  call 
this  great  twentieth  century.  Perhaps  he  has  gone 

[380] 


The  Ambuscade 

back  into  the  past,  back  to  his  original  date  —  one 
may  think  so,  since  he  is  never  seen  at  all, —  le  bon- 
homme  que  c'est!  " 

Irving  had  by  no  means  come  to  the  end  of  his  re- 
sources. He  remembered  that  Agostino  had  sent  him 
to  Arnold's  tenement.  Possibly  Agostino  might  be  able 
once  more  to  direct  him  to  his  father.  Where  was  this 
model  who  had  served  Winifred  for  her  "  Judas  Is- 
cariot"?  Irving  had  forgotten  the  situation  of  the 
house  in  which  Pasquale  was  murdered.  He  had  known 
of  it  only  from  the  reading  of  one  day's  paper;  any- 
way, it  was  not  likely  that  Agostino  should  be  an  in- 
habitant of  that  .house.  When  fleeing  from  Black 
Handers,  Agostino  had  taken  refuge  with  Captain  Silas 
Payne.  Irving  found,  by  telephone,  when  his  foster- 
parent  would  be  at  home,  and,  at  the  hour,  descended 
upon  the  home  of  his  boyhood. 

His  coming  was  also  a  source  of  delight  to  father 
and  mother  Payne.  Nothing  could  exceed  their  pride 
in  his  success,  and  nothing  was  farther  from  his  inten- 
tion than  to  mar  their  enjoyment  by  a  revelation  of 
what  he  had  learned.  They  were  so  secure  in  their  be- 
lief that  his  parents  were  dead,  and  took  such  comfort 
in  the  belief  —  for,  as  he  was  their  only  child,  so  they 
would  have  been  his  only  parents  —  Irving  told  him- 
self that  they  need  never  know  about  Dick  Arnold. 
Still,  his  business  with  Agostino  was  very  pressing. 

"  I  'm  glad  somebody  wants  to  see  Agostino,"  said 
the  hale  and  hearty  captain,  with  a  rather  rueful  laugh, 
"  for  he  is  a  great  nuisance  to  me.  He  is  always  nosing 
around  my  tugboat,  trying,  in  my  opinion,  to  get  some 

[381] 


Something  Else 

inside  information  on  my  cargoes.  What  for?  So  he 
can  do  some  inside  stealing,  the  rascal !  There 's  a 
coolness  between  us,  just  at  present.  I  caught  him 
where  he  had  no  business,  a  day  or  so  ago,  and  dropped 
him  into  the  river.  I  think  he  swam  out,  all  right.  If 
he  did  n't  drown,  you  '11  likely  enough  find  him  at  his 
coal-shop  on  the  Bend." 

The  captain  gave  the  particular  number  of  this  coal- 
shop,  and  the  next  evening,  Irving  was  threading  his 
way  through  the  riotous  noises,  smells,  and  colors,  of 
Mulberry  Bend.  As  it  was  a  warm  night,  the  inhab- 
itants had  poured  out  of  doors  and  windows ;  they  over- 
flowed the  narrow  streets,  were  dammed  up  along  the 
gutters,  were  sucked  down  into  foul  cellars.  Irving 
scaled  the  barricade  of  push-carts ;  he  penetrated  the 
rows  of  women,  old  and  young,  who  were  bargaining 
over  their  decaying  oranges  and  unsound  tomatoes  — 
talking  rapidly  in  an  Italian  dialect  unimpeded  by  con- 
sonants, as  if  in  a  hurry  to  sell  out  before  decomposi- 
tion became  complete. 

He  reached  Agostino's  chandlery.  The  door  was 
closed,  but  a  faint  light  struggled  through  its  little 
grimy  glass  square,  on  which  was  painted,  without  em- 
bellishments, 

"  COLE  10  CT  A  PALE  " 

Irving  knocked,  just  beneath  the  leaden  saints ;  for,  of 
course,  there  were  saints  everywhere,  from  ash-barrels 
to  cellar-holes,  since  no  business  was  conducted  without 


The  Ambuscade 

heavenly  intercession.  But  the  saint  on  Agostino's 
shop-door  was  of  a  particularly  angelic  countenance. 
While  Irving  knocked,  he  wondered  at  the  bewildering 
multitude  of  noisy,  gesticulating,  red-turbaned  and 
yellow-handkerchiefed  folk,  who  seemed  to  reek  with 
reckless  jollity.  They  laughed,  shouted,  sang  in  moth- 
er tongue,  as  if  they  had  melted  all  their  cares  into  the 
leaden  images,  and  had  left  the  saints  to  assume  their 
responsibilities. 

Nobody  was  in  the  shop.  But  presently  Irving  was 
surrounded  by  a  family  group  —  a  woman  and  three 
children,  regretfully  ignorant  of  English,  but  insistent, 
in  the  dialect  of  Fiesole,  that  they  were  the  wife  and 
children  of  Agostino.  With  the  assistance  of  a  cloud  of 
interpreting  witnesses,  Irving  learned  that  Agostino  had 
gone  to  Italy  after  his  family.  Here  they  were.  By 
the  look  of  him,  Signer  did  not  want  to  buy  coal.  Can- 
dles then?  Che!  Was  it  Agostino  he  wanta?  Away 
scurried  the  children,  and  presently  Agostino  appeared, 
evasive,  keen-eyed,  sinister.  He  recognized  Irving  with- 
out enthusiasm.  About  Arnold  — 

Agostino  waved  his  arm.  He  knew  no  more  about 
Arnold  than  that  wave  of  the  arm.  But  was  it  prob- 
able that  Arnold  would  ever  come  back  from  his  wander- 
ings? Another  wave.  But  he  had  thus  returned,  had 
he  not,  after  such  disappearances? 

"  Si/9 

And,  on  thus  returning,  would  doubtless  hunt  up 
Agostino  ? 

"  Si.39 

[383] 


Something  Else 

In  that  case,  would  Agostino  notify  Irving,  and  be 
handsomely  rewarded? 

"  Si." 

Was  nothing  to  be  extracted  from  Agostino  but  his 
glittering  look,  and  his  "  Si  "?  Nothing  but  the  wave 
of  the  arm.  Irving  retreated,  unsatisfied. 

It  was  three  weeks  later,  that  this  trip  to  Mulberry 
Bend  bore  fruit.  Irving  had  just  come  home  to  the 
private  boarding-house  which,  according  to  Monsieur 
du  Pays's  theory  of  "  locations  "  marked  his  ascent 
from  Gotham  Repose.  The  house  was  rather  dingy  on 
the  outside,  but  eminently  respectable  within;  it  was 
near  his  place  of  business,  and  was  presided  over  by  a 
widow  who  —  alas !  —  was  not  so  indistinct,  nor  — 
happily  —  so  ambitious,  as  Mrs.  Sadie  Wyse. 

Irving  learned  that  somebody  had  been  to  see  him  — 
a  young  woman,  very  dark,  and  rather  coarse-haired, 
with  a  red  bloom  under  the  olive  skin  of  Italy.  Who 
could  it  be?  Agostino's  wife?  Very  far,  indeed,  from 
Agostino's  wife,  as  he  learned  when  she  returned,  about 
two  hours  later.  It  was  Bianca. 

"  Bianca !  "  exclaimed  Irving,  surprised  to  discover 
that  he  remembered  the  name  of  Agostino's  former 
sweetheart.  He  had  seen  her  last  in  Arnold's  room  in 
the  East  Side  tenement.  How  that  night  came  back, 
and  how  hope  had  leaped  at  sight  of  the  pretty  face 
and  the  gay  red  dress ! 

"Bianca!  Has  Agostino  sent  you?  Has  he  found 
- — the  man  I  was  hunting  —  Dick  Arnold?  " 

[384] 


The  Ambuscade 

"  If  you  come  quick,"  said  she  who  had  once,  as  a 
pretended  cripple,  begged  alms  at  the  old  fountain  of 
Rutgers  Square,  "  I  tella  you  all  about  Dick  Arnold. 
But  you  not  come  quick,  it  no  use  to  come  a-talla." 

The  quicker  the  better,  not  only  to  find  his  father, 
but  to  get  Bianca  out  of  the  amazed  environs  of  the 
lodging-house.  They  were  on  the  street  almost  in- 
stantly. 

"  To  Mulberry  Bend?  "  asked  Irving,  hailing  a  cab. 
His  heart  was  beating  violently.  What  should  he  say, 
when  he  stood  face  to  face  with  his  father?  By  means 
of  what  arguments  could  he  induce  Arnold  to  give  up 
his  nomadic  existence?  When  they  were  in  the  cab, 
Bianca  asked,  from  the  remoteness  of  her  dark  corner, 

"  You  know  dat  Arnold,  he  yo'  padre  ?  Agostino 
tell  you  dat?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  found  it  out ;  he  has  come  back?  " 

"  Yaas.  He  come  back.  But  I  not  t'ink  you  know 
he  yo'  padre.  Agostino  know  it,  long  time.  Agostino 
make  Dick  do  w'atever  he  say,  because  he  t'ink  you  not 
know." 

"  Oh,  I  see !  Then  Agostino  held  this  secret  over 
Arnold's  head,  did  he  ?  And  how  did  Agostino  ever  find 
it  out?" 

"  Sometime  Dick  Arnold  say  too  much,  w'en  he  drink 
ver'  deep.  But  it  not  Agostino  send  me  for  you. 
Agostino  not  wanta  you  to  come.  Agostino  know  w'ere 
Dick  Arnold  wass,  dat  night  you  come  to  de  Bend." 

"  So  you  knew  I  came  to  the  Bend,  did  you?  " 
25  [  385  ] 


Something  Else 

"  I  know  w'atever  happen  at  Agostino's.  I  was  jus' 
behind  w'en  you  tole  'im  yo'  addressa.  I  listen  ver' 
close.  I  wanta  know  w'ere  you  live,  for  you  ver'  good 
to  me  once,  save-a  my  life.  And  Dick  Arnold,  he  ver' 
good  to  me  w'en  I  wass  jus'  a  kid.  I  do  anyt'ing  for 
you,  an'  for  yo9  padre,  an'  I  do  anyt'ing  against  Agos- 
tino,  oh,  damma,  yass!  "  The  last  words  came  in  a 
hiss. 

"  Is  my  father  at  Agostino's  shop  ?  " 

Bianca  seemed  to  evade  the  question.  It  appeared 
that  Agostino  had  learned  that  Captain  Silas  Payne 
was  to  tow  some  coal  barges  from  the  Jersey  shore  that 
very  night.  Therefore,  Agostino  had  decided  to  take 
some  congenial  spirits  with  him,  to  transfer  some  of 
that  coal  from  the  barges  to  the  shop. 

Irving  felt  the  perspiration  start  to  his  brow.  He 
interrupted  Bianca  sharply :  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Agostino  is  going  to  steal  the  coal  from  Captain 
Payne's  tow?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Bianca,  by  way  of  emendation,  "  I  not 
calla  dat  '  steal.'  Agostino,  'e  take-a  de  coal,  w'ile  it 
bein'  towed  along  by  de  tug.  Dey  take-a  de  coal  from 
de  barge  w'at  is  de  most  far  back  behinda.  Capitan 
Payne,  *e  never  know  not'in'  about  it.  Dat  not  Cap- 
itan Payne's  coal.  It  not  b'long  to  him.  It  b'long  to 
nobody,  jus'  to  some  comp'ny." 

"  Is  that  the  way  Agostino  usually  lays  in  his  stock  ?  " 

"  Sometime'  'e  buy  de  coal.  He  not  always  have  so 
good  a  chance-a." 

[386] 


The  Ambuscade 

"  But  surely  my  father  would  not  help  him  in  such  a 
job  as  that!  "  cried  Irving,  in  fierce  repudiation  of  the 
base  suspicion. 

"  No,  Arnold  not  take-a  not'in'.  But  he  willa  be  wid 
Agostino  jus'  de  same.  Dat  w'ere  you  find-a  him,  you 
look  for  'im.  Dey  out  dere,  right  now,  out  in  de  river, 
somew'ere,  follerin'  dat  tug,  or  layin'  for  it." 

Irving  was  bewildered.  Why  should  his  father  be 
with  Agostino,  if  not  to  help  in  his  criminal  enterprise? 

Bianca  enlightened  him.  "  You  know  dat  Pasquale 
w'at  wass  kill5,  w'en  Agostino  was  hidin'?  De  Black 
Handers  did  n't  know  who  done  dat,  till  I  tole  'em.  But 
I  tell  'em !  "  She  leaned  forward,  and  he  saw  a  cruel 
light  leap  in  her  eyes,  as  from  the  blaze  in  her  heart. 
"  W'en  Agostino  come  back  from  Fiesole,  w'at  'e  bring 
wid  'im?  He  bringa  back  dat  wife  an'  de  kids,  alia 
right,  O.  K.,  jus'  like  you  told  me  he  would,  some  daya! 
'  You  go,'  Agostino  say  to  me.  So  I  go." 

She  laughed  furiously.  "  I  go,  alia  right.  I  go  to 
de  Black  Handers !  I  say,  '  It  wass  Agostino  who  kill' 
Pasquale.  How  I  know?  Because  he  slip  to  my 
rooma,  dat  nighta,  w'en  Pasquale  think  I  dere,  by  my- 
self. But  /  know  w'ere  he  be  to-night,'  I  say,  w'en  I 
hear  about  de  coal,  *  /  know  w'ere  he  be  caught,  so  like 
a  mouse-a  in  de  trapa ! '  An'  I  tell  about  de  coal- 
barges,  jus'  as  I  tella  you." 

Irving  instinctively  shrank  from  her,  as  if  to  escape 
being  scorched  by  the  dart  of  her  furious  jealousy. 

"  But  you  ver'  good  to  me,"  she  resumed,  calming 
[387] 


Something  Else 

herself ;  "  and  Dick  Arnold  wass  always  so  good.     Bi- 
anca  never  forget  de  good  an'  de  bad." 

"  Bianca,  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  understand  what 
you  mean.  Do  you  say  that  Agostino  and  his  men  are 
to  steal  coal  from  Captain  Payne  on  this  very  night  ?  " 

"  Si,  dis  ver'  nighta." 

"  And  you  have  told  this  to  Agostino's  enemies  ?  " 

"  You  mighta  righta,  dey  his  enemies,  de  Black 
Handers ! " 

"  But  why  did  you  tell  the  Black  Handers  about 
Agostino  ?  " 

"  Che!  So  dey  catch  'im  at  his  job,  so  dey  take  'im 
w'en  he  can't  call  for  help,  so  he  can  do  not'in\  an'  so 
dey  can  killa  him  like-a  dog." 

"Kill  him,  Bianca?" 

"  Like-a  dog,"  hissed  Bianca.     "  Jus'  like-a  dog." 

«  Well,"  said  Irving,  thoughtfully,  "  I  've  no  doubt 
he  deserves  it.  But  you  tell  me  that  my  father  will  be 
with  him?  " 

"  Yass.  I  tella  you  w'y.  Dick  Arnold,  he  find  out 
our  plans.  He  find  out  I  tella  de  Black  Handers.  So 
he  slip  away  in  a  skiff,  to  tell  Agostino.  He  gone  to 
hunt  him  on  de  dark  river.  Maybe  he  not  finda  him; 
but  he  willa  find  Capitan  Payne's  tug,  w'en  it  cross  de 
river,  and  dat  way,  he  find  Agostino.  But  it  do  Agos- 
tino no  good.  We  will  be  ready,  too !  " 

Again  the  perspiration  stood  in  cold  beads  upon  the 
young  man's  brow.  They  were  drawing  near  Mul- 
berry Bend.  In  a  short  time,  Irving  understood  every- 
thing, but  this  understanding  availed  little  in  clearing 

F388] 


The  Ambuscade 

the  future  of  sinister  threatenings.  The  Black  Hand- 
ers  were  intent  upon  vengeance.  So  was  Bianca,  who 
meant  to  go  with  them  in  their  concealed  boat.  They 
would  descend  upon  Agostino,  and  take  him  in  the  act 
of  stealing  coal.  In  the  meantime  Arnold,  having 
heard  of  the  danger  that  threatened  his  ruffianly  bene- 
factor, had  rowed  into  the  darkness,  to  carry  a  warn- 
ing. He  might  find  Agostino ;  he  would,  without  doubt, 
discover  Captain  Payne's  tug,  and  this  tug  would  bring 
Arnold  and  Agostino  together.  At  the  same  time,  the 
Black  Handers  would  appear.  Whoever  first  reached 
the  coal  barges,  would  direct  the  destiny  of  the  others. 

If  Agostino  were  first  to  the  barges,  he  would  be 
stealing  coal  when  Arnold  came  to  warn  him,  or  when 
the  band  of  Italians  came  to  kill  him.  Should  Arnold 
first  reach  the  quarry,  he  would  warn  Agostino  away. 
In  case  of  Bianca's  friends  arriving  first,  they  would 
lie  in  wait  to  capture  Arnold  —  thus  obviating  the  dan- 
ger of  his  betrayal  —  or  seize  upon  Agostino. 

In  all  this,  Bianca  had  at  heart  two  separate  inter- 
ests: she  desired  the  death  of  Agostino,  and  the  safety 
of  Arnold.  The  Black  Handers  had  sworn  to  save 
Arnold,  if  possible ;  that  had  been  Bianca's  condition  of 
betraying  her  former  lover.  But  it  was  probable  that 
Arnold  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  saved.  Seeing 
Agostino  at  the  mercy  of  cut-throats,  he  would  leap 
to  his  assistance.  He  was  not  a  man  tamely  to  sur- 
render when  his  benefactor  was  in  danger. 

That  was  where  Irving's  part  in  the  night's  tragedy 
came  in.  He  was  to  go  with  Bianca  and  her  friends, 

[389] 


Something  Else 

in  search  of  the  coal  barges.  Bianca's  friends  had 
consented  to  his  presence  among  them.  To  be  sure  his 
voluntary  presence  would  make  him  an  outlaw  like  the 
others.  But  Arnold  would  not  contend  against  Irving. 
Thus  Irving  would  not  only  be  the  means  of  saving  Ar- 
nold's life,  in  case  of  a  hand-to-hand  struggle,  but  he 
would  prove  a  safeguard  to  Bianca's  party. 

Irving,  on  his  side,  realized  perfectly  the  situation, 
with  its  possible  consequences:  To  trust  himself  into 
the  power  of  Bianca's  Black  Handers,  was  like  deliver- 
ing himself,  unarmed,  to  wild  beasts.  To  consent  to 
their  plan  of  vengeance,  was  to  place  himself  beyond 
the  protection  of  the  law.  And  all  might  end  in  a  use- 
less attempt  to  save  his  father's  life.  On  the  other 
hand,  to  seek  other  help  than  that  of  the  Italians  would 
mean  his  father's  imprisonment,  or  more  likely,  his 
death.  In  going  to  warn  Agostino,  Arnold  had  allied 
himself  with  the  river-thieves.  No  one  would  regard 
his  motive  as  leniently  as  did  his  son.  Nor  was  it  by 
any  means  improbable  that  Irving  himself  was  about  to 
end  his  promising  career,  by  disgraceful  imprisonment, 
or  an  inglorious  death. 

Yet  the  young  man  did  not  hesitate,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  would  go  with  Bianca.  The  cab  was 
stopped  before  the  Bend  was  reached  for  prudence 
sake.  They  descended  to  the  street,  at  the  mouth  of  a 
dark  alley.  Bianca  beckoned. 


[390] 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  COAL  BARGES 

IRVING  followed  Bianca  -down  the  alley  until  she 
paused  before  a  narrow  door.     In  answer  to  her 
knock,  given,  no  doubt,  according  to  some  agreed 
signal,  the  door  opened.     They  entered  a  sort  of  lum- 
ber room ;  the  walls  were  hung  with  second-hand  clothes, 
the    floor    was    littered    with    fragments    of    splintered 
kindling.     Against     this     squalid     background,     four 
swarthy  Italians  were  etched  by  a  smoked  lantern. 

Their  leader  was  a  young  fellow,  handsome  in  his 
bold  way,  darker  than  Bianca,  and  heavy-browed.  His 
name  was  Pietro.  The  intelligence  of  his  countenance 
explained  his  leadership.  The  others  revealed  no  ex- 
pression except  differing  gradations  of  craftiness.  Be- 
fore the  levelling  wave  of  primitive  passions,  marks  of 
individual  distinction  were  obliterated. 

It  was  inevitable  that  these  men  should  regard  Irving 
with  distrust,  yet  the  resolution  of  his  pale  face  did 
something  to  allay  suspicion.  Bianca  found  it  expe- 
dient to  remind  them  of  their  oath  —  to  save  Arnold's 
life,  if  possible.  She  recapitulated  the  reasons  for 
Irving's  presence;  she  reminded  them  of  his  former 
kindness  to  herself,  and  assured  them  of  his  secrecy  — 
not  on  the  ground  that  he  promised  secrecy,  but  be- 

[  391  ] 


Something  Else 

cause  to  betray  them,  would  be  to  destroy  his  father  as 
well  as  himself. 

Bianca  spoke  in  Italian.  Irving  listened  to  her 
gliding  words,  which  seemed  to  slip  from  her  red  mouth 
like  the  coils  of  a  serpent.  Understanding  nothing,  he 
imitated  the  grave  attentiveness  of  the  others.  It  was 
not  until  Bianca  explained,  that  he  found  they  had  re- 
newed their  vows  to  protect  him  and  his  father.  His 
gaze  passed  from  one  sinister  face  to  another.  Shifty 
eyes  turned  from  him,  potential  blood-guiltiness  red- 
dening their  orbs  —  yet  the  vows  were  of  mercy  as 
well  as  of  vengeance.  Strange,  indeed,  that  his  fa- 
ther's fate  should  rest  in  the  hands  of  these  men,  and 
that,  in  all  the  great  city,  no  one  could  save  him  except 
this  Bianca  whom,  one  day,  he  had  saved  from  being 
trampled  by  a  panic-stricken  mob. 

In  the  dim  lantern-light,  Bianca's  red  head-cloth 
showed  as  a  streak  of  blood  seen  in  smoke.  One  of  the 
men,  Giacomo,  low  and  heavy,  kept  his  upper  lip  drawn 
in  such  a  way  as  always  to  expose  a  yellow,  protruding 
fang.  Against  the  blackened  wall  this  face,  almost 
black,  with  its  yellow  tooth  and  its  wild  eyes,  reminded 
Irving  of  a  shaggy  wolf  scenting  the  prey. 

Suddenly  this  Giacomo,  who  could  speak  no  Eng- 
lish, though  he  had  lived  many  years  in  New  York, 
snarled  in.  harsh  impatience,  "  Perche  non  parti  ?  " 

Pietro  held  his  huge  silver  watch  toward  the  light. 
The  time  had  come.  "  Apri  port  a!  "  he  commanded  in 
the  voice  of  a  general. 

Bianca  opened  the  door,  and  Pietro  slipped  the  lan- 
[  392  ] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

tern  into  an  oilskin  bag.  He  and  Bianca  went  out  into 
the  alley,  followed  by  Irving.  The  others  dispersed 
noiselessly.  All  were  to  meet  at  the  boat. 

"  Mi  siegui,"  Pietro  whispered  to  Irving.  Then  re- 
membering the  other's  limitations  — "  Don't  let  on  as 
if  you  knowed  me.  We  goin'  to  de  river.  Foller  as  if 
it  was  jus'  ax'dent." 

Irving  looked  back;  Bianca  was  disappearing  down 
the  alley,  into  whose  lower  depths  the  light  refused  to 
penetrate. 

In  spite  of  Pietro's  orders,  Irving  kept  at  his  side. 
"  Bianca  tells  me,"  he  said,  "  that  Agostino  killed  Pas- 
quale,  who  was  your  friend.  You  want  revenge.  But 
is  n't  it  a  fact  that  Pasquale  had  threatened  to  blow  up 
Agostino  with  a  bomb  ?  If  Agostino  had  n't  done  for 
Pasquale,  would  n't  Pasquale  — " 

"  II  so!  "  returned  Pietro  impatiently.  "  But  it  was 
because  Agostino  would  n't  fork  over  de  mon'  dat  Pas- 
quale call  for." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  why  should  Agostino  have  paid 
Pasquale  the  money  ?  " 

"  Because  he  ask  it.  Pest! "  It  was  very  simple. 
Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  conclusiveness  of 
Pietro's  tone. 

Irving,  without  much  hope,  made  a  second  attempt 
to  avert  catastrophe.  "  Why  not  notify  the  police  that 
Agostino  is  the  murderer?  Then  your  enemy  would 
be  caught  without  danger  to  yourself."  Irving  expa- 
tiated upon  the  advantages  of  legal  rights  over  private 
vengeance. 

[393] 


Something  Else 

"  Oh,  we  rather  fix  him,  us,"  said  Pietro  succinctly. 
"  We  don't  want  no  cop.  Better  you  get  back,  and  not 
be  saw  with  me.  Besides,  if  de  cops  was  on  de  job, 
would  n't  dey  nab  yo'  padre  ?  Che  ?  You  better  be 
glad  we  fix  'im.  You  want  your  padre  nabbed  when  he 
with  de  men  what  take  de  coal?  Then  they  send  yo' 
padre  to  the  Island,  sure  thing,  or  up  to  Sing  Sing. 
Oh,  we  fix  Agostino,  for  right ! " 

Irving  felt  himself  driven  along  a  dark  and  untried 
current,  with  no  desire  to  resist.  He  fell  back  then, 
always  careful  to  keep  the  Italian  in  sight.  They 
threaded  a  maze  of  tangled  byways  on  the  East  Side, 
ever  drawing  closer  to  the  river  without  appearing  to 
do  so  by  design.  Pietro,  when  intent  upon  dark  deeds, 
was  wont  to  wander  with  apparent  aimlessness  though 
feeling  the  need  of  haste  most  pressing.  In  doing  vio- 
lence to  his  desires,  he  imagined  himself  more  secure 
against  detection. 

When  Irving,  consumed  by  impatience  to  encounter 
his  father,  again  accosted  his  guide,  Pietro  had  paused 
before  an  illuminated  clock,  as  if  surrendering  himself 
to  an  artist's  admiration  of  the  recurring  flashes  of 
light.  He  spoke  grudgingly  to  Irving. 

"  Oh,  you  there?  "  he  said,  as  in  surprise.  Then  in 
a  whisper,  "  H-s-s !  You  never  be  good  at  dis  business, 
you!" 

"  But  we  are  quite  alone." 

"  How  you  know  dat?  Maybe  Agostino  think  him 
quite  alone,  but  we  are  goin'  to  slip  up  on  him.  Maybe 
somebody  slippin*  up  on  us  dis  minute.  Che  did  ? 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

Quite  alone !  A  man  is  never  what  you  say  quite  alone, 
till  de  stiletto  is  in  his  back.  Come  on,  then." 

They  glided  down  the  street,  and  presently  a  low 
voice  said  to  Pietro,  "  Dere  is  de  river !  "  It  was  Bi- 
anca,  who  had  come,  apparently,  from  the  grated 
mouth  of  a  sewer-pipe ;  but  that,  of  course,  was  impos- 
sible. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  was  a  wide  swift  blackness, 
gleaming  beneath  innumerable  lights.  As  they  crept 
down  the  slant  of  the  paved  road,  they  were  assailed 
by  the  sounds  of  the  river  —  deep  bass  whistles,  shrill 
sirens,  staccato  explosions  of  piercing  steam,  bell- 
clangings,  splashings  of  wheels,  and  the  rush  of  lapping 
waves  against  rotting  supports  of  disreputable  piers. 

Irving  felt  his  blood  racing  with  the  tide.  It  seemed 
bearing  him  away  from  the  world  he  had  known,  even 
from  the  world  of  his  dreams,  into  a  chaos  of  indis- 
tinguishable emotions. 

Pietro,  the  destination  reached,  grew  confidential: 
"  Bianca,  here  —  I  love  her  first,  me.  But  Agostino,  he 
have  de  mon',  and  dat  is  ver'  good,  too.  Bianca  think 
so,  you  bet !  " 

"  But  I  hate  Agostino  now,"  said  Bianca,  with  vin- 
dictive fierceness.  "  I  hate  'im  jus'  like-a  dog.  E  ben! 
I  fix  'im,  in  ver'  good  time ;  to-night,  I  hope.  I  not  f or- 
geta  dat  Pietro  take-a  me  to  'im.  I  not  forget  Pietro." 

"  De  boat,"  said  Pietro,  unemotionally. 

Out  on  the  greasy  planks  they  passed,  like  flitting 
shadows.  At  the  bottom  of  some  crazy  steps  was  se- 
cured a  long,  slender  boat,  containing  three  men.  It 

[395] 


Something  Else 

almost  bumped  against  a  squat  oyster-boat,  from  the 
roof  of  which  streamed  a  red  glare.  By  this  pillar  of 
light,  was  revealed  the  yellow  tooth  of  Giacomo.  He, 
with  his  companions,  held  the  boat  ready  for  instant 
departure. 

Pietro  took  the  remaining  pair  of  oars.  Irving  and 
Bianca  were  seated  in  the  stern.  They  pushed  off. 

When  they  had  shot  out  from  the  ugly  barricade  of 
warehouses  and  unsightly  freight-depots,  they  found 
themselves  in  a  scene  of  fairy  loveliness.  Swiftly  they 
descended  toward  the  Battery.  In  passing  Governor's 
Island,  the  beauty  of  the  city's  lights  grew  more  en- 
chanting. As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  Jersey 
shore  was  found  set  with  signal  lights  like  threaded 
fireflies  against  the  misty  sky.  On  the  other  hand, 
Long  Island  blazed  in  the  white  points  of  South  Brook- 
lyn. The  Hudson  revealed,  upon  its  ample  bosom,  a 
countless  maze  of  twinkling  gems,  each  gem  a  huge 
steamer,  with  illuminated  portholes  for  facets.  Two 
ribbons  of  fire  —  the  Brooklyn  and  Williamsburg 
bridges  —  spread  apart  their  giant  bands  of  splendor. 
But  the  climax,  the  very  heart  of  all  this  night-glory, 
was  the  narrow  tongue  of  land  between  the  rivers,  ex- 
tending its  sharp  point,  as  if  to  drink  in  the  light  of 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty. 

Of  all  this,  Irving  alone  was  sensible.  He  seemed 
to  be  looking  upon  New  York  for  the  first  time ;  for  he 
did  not  find  it  what  it  had  been.  As  the  magic  of 
field,  stream,  and  glen  had  vanished  from  the  poet's 
impression  of  things  with  the  passing  of  his  youth,  so 

[396] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

Irving  found  that,  with  the  disappearance  of  his  igno- 
rance respecting  his  parentage,  something  had  van- 
ished from  the  enormous  buildings  of  stone  and  steel, 
from  the  mad  throb  of  street  life,  from  the  vast  activi- 
ties of  the  Bay, —  something  of  indefinite  remoteness, 
something,  doubtless,  of  himself.  Yet  the  passing  of 
his  young  fancies  brought  him  nearer  to  real  life,  and 
left  him  more  determined  to  wrest  happiness  from  the 
grasp  of  destiny.  In  his  resolve  to  make  this  happi- 
ness of  usefulness  his  own,  he  built  higher  and  stronger 
that  wall  that  stood  between  him  and  the  thought  of 
mother. 

The  mists  were  drifting  over  New  York  Bay. 
Through  their  light  spirals,  gleamed  the  beryl,  the 
topaz,  the  emerald,  the  ruby,  the  sapphire,  the  amber, 
the  amethyst,  and  the  dazzling  diamond,  of  the  city's 
light.  Triple  rows  of  white  squares  marked  the  passing 
of  floating  palaces.  Irving  recalled  his  tugboat-days, 
when  he  had  voyaged  with  Captain  Payne  on  the  Hud- 
sonia,  picking  up  tows  at  Sandy  Hook.  How  strange, 
that  he  should  be  intent  upon  meeting  Captain  Payne's 
tugboat  this  night,  not  to  greet  his  foster-parent,  but 
to  rescue  his  natural  father  from  among  those  stealing 
coal  from  the  captain's  barges ! 

The  rowers  showed  the  expertness  of  trained  boat- 
men, who,  no  doubt,  picked  up  a  comfortable  living 
from  the  wide  waters.  They  had  come  up  from  Coney 
Island  —  so  Bianca  informed  Irving  —  where  was  their 
home,  or,  at  any  rate,  their  retreating-point.  They 
were  to  return  to  Coney  Island  after  the  encounter  with 

[397] 


Something  Else 

Agostino.  Bianca  would  go  with  them,  to  avoid  pos- 
sible inquiry  in  old  haunts  where  she  was  known ;  Irving 
would  go  with  them,  also,  if  he  were  wise. 

The  Wall  Street  ferry-boat  was  the  first  to  cross 
their  path.  Then  came  the  Whitehall  boats  on  their 
way  to  Atlantic  and  Hamilton  Avenues,  over  in  Brook- 
lyn. Lower  down,  they  saw  a  Coney  Island  boat  swing- 
ing around  the  bend  from  the  Thirty-ninth  Street  ferry. 
From  on  board  came  the  sounds  of  a  gay  band.  Irving 
caught  the  air ;  he  heard  voices  of  long-ago  singing  — 

"You  may  have  the  rest  of  the  world, 
But  give  me  New  York  for  mine." 

Irving  uttered  a  low  cry,  then  was  startled  at  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"  Yass,"  said  Bianca,  "  it  ver'  foggy,  but  dat  alia 
right  for  us.  Soon  it  de  time  Capitan  Payne  come 
through  de  Kill  von  Kull.  De  time  nearly  here.  Not 
ver'  long  to  wait.  Den  we  see  Agostino,  he  not  ver' 
glad,  I  guessa,  not  ver'  glad  to  see  Bianca;  oh,  no, 
evert'ing  's  different  since  he  come  back  from  Fiesole !  " 

Giacomo  uttered  a  strange  oath.  A  huge  revolving 
light  had  fallen  upon  the  black  water,  and  was  moving 
toward  the  boat.  At  the  same  time,  the  lights  of  a  large 
patrol-boat  burst  through  the  increasing  mists. 

Irving,  in  dumb  fascination,  watched  the  approach 
of  the  revolving  light.  Like  some  enormous  white  fin- 
ger it  covered  them,  it  held  itself  upon  them  as  if  to 
point  out  the  disreputable  crew  to  heaven  and  earth. 
Then  it  passed  on.  But  the  police-boat  stood  nearer. 

[398J 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

The  Italians  adopted  the  manoeuvre  of  dodging  in 
and  out  among  all  manner  of  craft,  with  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  losing  themselves  from  the  patrol-boat.  When, 
at  last,  the  river-guardian  was  lost  from  sight,  all 
breathed  more  freely. 

They  had  not  long  enjoyed  the  triumph  of  their  es- 
cape, when  Bianca  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Dere !  You 
see?  Che!  Capitan  Payne's  tug!  And  looka  —  de 
coal  barges !  " 

"  Dat  's  right,"  said  Pietro,  examining  the  boat  that 
had  issued  from  the  Kill  von  Kull.  "  It 's  w'at  we  're 
lookin'  for." 

"  I  bet  Agostino  on  one  of  dem  barges,"  hissed  Bi- 
anca. "  But  if  no,  he  come-a  yet ;  he  fall  into  our 
trapa."  Irving  heard  her  little  teeth  snap  together 
metallically,  as  if  they  were  the  trap  in  question. 
Above  the  splashing  of  their  eight  oars,  and  the 
thousand  shrill  cries  of  the  night-birds,  he  heard  Bi- 
anca's  grating  teeth,  and  the  ominous  clicking  of  her 
tongue. 

"  You  gotta  gun  ?  "  Bianca  whispered  in  his  ear.  He 
shrank  from  her  with  a  shudder.  "  But  you  better 
have-a  one."  She  thrust  a  pistol  into  his  hand.  "  Oh, 
I  'm  alia  right,  you  bet,  Bianca  take-a  care  herself,  an' 
of  Agostino,  too, —  damma !  " 

Straight  toward  them  came  the  little  tug  of  Captain 
Payne,  the  smokestack  slanting  back  from  the  weight 
of  the  tow.  There  were  three  unwieldy  coal  barges 
fastened  one  behind  another,  the  first  secured  to  the  tug 
by  an  enormous  cable.  The  barges  were  set  with  sig- 

[399] 


Something  Else 

nal-lamps  which  did  more  to   reveal  their  presence  in 
the  fog,  than  to  illumine  their  contents. 

To  the  last  barge  a  boat  had  been  secured  by  grap- 
pling hooks,  evidently  designed  to  bear  off  Agostino's 
stolen  booty.  On  this  rear-barge  stood  two  men  throw- 
ing basketfuls  of  coal  into  the  piratical  boat.  The 
movements  of  these  men  were  so  calm  and  business-like 
that,  if  any  in  the  passing  vessels  had  observed  them,  it 
must  have  been  concluded  that  the  workers  were  en- 
gaged in  honest  toil. 

The  boat  in  which  Irving  crouched  was  directed 
slantwise  with  the  current,  toward  the  tugboat ;  and,  as 
it  entered  the  swell  in  its  wake,  the  young  man  fancied 
he  discerned  his  foster-father's  form  turning  toward 
the  window  of  the  pilot-house.  If  so,  it  vanished  in- 
stantly. There  was  a  swift,  lurid  glare  from  the 
depths  of  the  engine-room.  The  next  moment,  Gia- 
como  had  cast  the  rope  about  an  upright  at  the  edge  of 
the  first  barge. 

The  boat  swung  round.  As  it  did  so,  the  oars  were 
lifted  from  the  water  and  thrown  into  the  boat.  They 
were  now  scraping  against  the  black  side  of  the  barge. 
Above  them  towered  a  mountain  of  coal  which  glittered 
under  a  large  lantern  that  had  been  secured  to  the  up- 
right. Pietro,  who  had  retained  one  of  his  oars, 
smashed  the  lantern,  and  all  was  in  darkness. 

"  Mi  siegui!  "  Pietro  commanded. 

Bianca  turned  to  Irving.  "  Come,  climb  up,"  she 
said.  She  put  her  knife  between  her  teeth,  that  it 
might  not  impede  her  movements. 

[400] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

Giacomo  had  already  drawn  himself  up,  by  means  of 
the  rope. 

Pietro  wanted  to  help  Bianca.  He  began,  "  Mia 
ben—" 

"  Ever'  man  for  hisself ,"  interrupted  Bianca,  scram- 
bling past  him. 

Having  gained  the  edge  of  the  barge's  deck,  they 
found  it  would  be  necessary  to  climb  the  mountain  of 
coal  in  order  to  reach  the  intermediary  barge.  The 
crossing  was  laborious  rather  than  difficult.  Between 
the  first  barge  and  the  next,  was  a  narrow  space  of  the 
racing  tide.  Over  this  blackness  and  this  sinister 
movement,  it  was  necessary  to  leap  with  no  certainty 
of  a  good  footing  on  the  next  deck.  They  let  Bianca 
jump,  having  the  advantage  of  an  elevated  lantern. 
Then  Pietro  smashed  the  lantern,  and  the  others  took 
their  chances  in  the  thick  gloom.  One  might  as  well 
fall  into  the  river,  as  be  seen  leaping  from  deck  to  deck. 

The  second  barge  was  gained.  There  was  another 
mountain  of  coal  requiring  further  efforts  at  expert 
scrambling,  and  increased  need  of  caution.  It  seemed 
to  Irving  an  eternity  before  all  stood  on  the  third  and 
last  barge;  and  to  Bianca  it  doubtless  seemed  as  long. 
His  thought  was  that  now,  only  a  last  heap  of  coal 
separated  him  from  the  chance  of  meeting  his  father. 
Her  thought  was  that  now,  only  the  last  heap  of  coal 
divided  her  from  the  certainty  of  her  revenge. 

They  made  the  ascent,  cautious  not  to  alarm  the 
enemy.  At  last,  from  the  peak  of  the  coal-heap,  they 
looked  down  upon  the  two  Italians.  Good!  They 
26  [  401  ] 


Something  Else 

were  still  heaving  basketful  after  basketful  into  the 
boat,  with  methodical  leisureliness.  Pietro  had  no  need 
to  demolish  other  lanterns.  The  thieves  had  spared 
him  the  trouble.  Nevertheless,  dark  as  it  was,  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  identity  of  the  Italian  nearer 
the  boat ;  it  was  Agostino.  Irving  looked  with  breath- 
less intentness,  but  it  was  evident  that  the  boat  was  de- 
serted, and  that  only  two  Italians  stood  below.  His 
father  was  not  there. 

Bianca,  lying  flat  upon  her  breast,  by  Irving's  side, 
watched  the  coal-heavers  with  glittering  eyes.  It  was 
for  Pietro  to  give  the  command  for  a  fierce  and  simul- 
taneous charge  upon  the  unsuspecting  Italians.  The 
little  party  of  five  were  suspended,  as  it  were,  upon 
Pietro's  very  breathing.  Why  did  he  hesitate? 

No  need  to  ask  —  one  word  would  tell  all.  Out  of 
the  swaying  river-mists,  had  loomed  a  dreaded  form  — 
the  patrol-boat.  Its  glaring  eye  looked  steadily  down 
upon  the  coal-thieves.  It  came  like  some  vast  black 
river-beast,  with  eye  of  white  fury. 

Agostino  found  himself  discovered.  He  flung  his 
basket  overboard.  His  companion  imitated  his  ex- 
ample. Both  leaped  for  the  boat  and  gained  it  in  two 
bounds.  Instantly  the  patrol-boat  began  lowering  its 
gasoline  launch.  In  an  inconceivably  short  time  the 
launch  was  ready  for  action.  Several  officers  appeared 
in  it,  as  by  magic. 

"  Che!  "  exclaimed  Bianca,  furiously.  "  He  getta 
'way,  he  escape-a,  ah-a/z,/  "  Again  Irving  heard  that 
clicking  of  teeth  and  tongue  that  had  sickened  him. 

[402] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

The  gasoline  launch  pushed  off,  intent  upon  inves- 
tigation. 

At  that  moment,  a  small  skiff  shot  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, on  the  side  of  the  pirate-boat  that  was  farthest 
from  the  searchlight.  A  man  leaped  from  the  skiff, 
to  snatch  at  a  dangling  rope  at  the  boat's  stern.  The 
empty  skiff  danced  past  the  barge  and  was  lost.  The 
newcomer  gained  the  deck  of  Agostino's  boat. 

"  It 's  Dick  Arnold,"  Bianca  whispered.  "  He  come 
to  give-a  Agostino  de  tip.  But  'e  might  as  well  not. 
Agostino  getta  'way  anyhow.  But  I  fix  'im  some  day.'* 

"  Get  away,  nothin*!  "  retorted  Pietro.  "  How  dey 
get  away?  Look,  now!  " 

Irving  groaned,  in  his  impotence.  "  He  will  be 
taken  with  the  others,"  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  started 
up  with  the  rash  thought  of.  rushing  to  the  boat,  to  do 
he  knew  not  what.  But  Pietro  clutched  his  arm. 

"  Wait,"  whispered  Pietro,  joy  in  his  voice  —  "  Dey 
come,  all  three  —  look !  " 

It  was  true.  Not  only  Agostino  and  his  fellow- 
thief,  but  Dick  Arnold  as  well,  jumped  from  the  boat 
upon  the  rear  barge.  Hardly  had  their  feet  sounded 
upon  the  boards,  when  they  were  throwing  off  the 
grappling-hooks.  The  boat,  already  heavily  laden 
with  coal  stolen  from  Captain  Payne's  charge,  began  to 
sink.  It  settled  rapidly.  Evidently  Agostino  had  cut 
a  hole  in  the  bottom,  and  hoped  to  escape  pursuit  by 
hiding  under  the  flooring  of  one  of  the  barges. 

Irving,  kneeling  beside  Bianca's  prone  form,  kept  his 
eyes  fastened  upon  his  father,  eager  to  rush  to  his  help, 

[403] 


Something  Else 

but  fearful  of  precipitating  a  bloody  encounter  by  re- 
vealing himself. 

The  gasoline  launch  cut  a  white  line  across  the  black 
water ;  but  the  scuttled  vessel  was  going  down  so  rapidly 
that  the  launch  was  obliged  to  swerve  aside,  to  avoid 
the  danger  of  suction.  In  making  the  deflection,  the 
officer  in  charge  shouted, 

"  What  are  you  doing  on  that  barge  ?  " 

The  fugitives  were  desirous  of  reaching  the  foremost 
barge.  On  they  came,  as  swiftly  as  the  coal-dust  would 
permit.  Arnold  was  the  second  of  the  straggling  line. 
Agostino  was  the  one  closest  to  Pietro's  ambuscade  be- 
hind the  coal-peak.  He  was  so  near,  that  Irving  might 
almost  have  touched  his  head  as  it  bobbed  beneath 
him. 

Pietro  said  sharply  — "  Now!  " 

Instantly  Pietro,  Irving  and  Bianca  flung  them- 
selves down  from  their  advantageous  position  which,  up 
to  that  time,  had  not  only  shielded  them  from  Agos- 
tino, but  from  the  police.  As  they  went  half-rolling 
down  the  slant,  Giacomo  and  his  two  companions  threw 
themselves  upon  the  spot  just  vacated,  and  lay  wait- 
ing, their  arms  extended,  their  pistol-barrels  touched 
in  white  lines  by  the  sudden  glare  of  the  searchlight. 

Bianca  met  Agostino,  breast  to  breast.  He  had 
drawn  a  revolver,  but  it  was  pushed  to  one  side  by  the 
body  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  deserted. 

"  Folle  ch'io  fid!  "  snarled  Agostino,  trying  to  re- 
cover his  balance.  Down  he  went  before  her  tigerish 
impact.  They  rolled  along  the  slope  of  the  coal-heap, 

[  404  ] 


Panting,  cursing,   grappling  each  other  in  a  black  fury 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

over  and  over,  panting,  cursing,  grappling  each  other 
in  a  black  fury. 

Irving,  in  the  meantime,  had  darted  straight  toward 
Dick  Arnold,  with  no  other  thought  than  to  save  his 
father.  Pietro  had  run  after  the  rolling  bodies  of  his 
rival  and  his  sweetheart,  eager  to  add  the  strength  of 
his  hatred  to  the  woman's  weakness. 

Irving  reached  Arnold.  He  caught  his  arm.  "  This 
way,"  he  cried.  "  Up  the  slant.  We  have  a  boat  wait- 
ing." 

Arnold  recognized  him,  though  he  must  have  found 
his  presence  marvellous.  "  Good  comrade !  "  cried  Ar- 
nold, heartily.  "  Good  comrade !  It  is  my  very  dear 
Monsieur  '  Irvilonne  Paynos ! ' 

"  Surrender ! "  came  a  trumpet-voice  from  the 
launch.  "  Surrender,  or  we  fire !  " 

Arnold,  little  dreaming  that  Irving  had  penetrated 
the  secret  of  their  relationship,  was  all  excited  gayety. 
He  made  a  burly  and  rather  swaggering  cavalier. 
"  Who  'd  have  thought,"  he  exclaimed,  panting  up  the 
declivity  with  Irving's  assistance,  "  that  you  and  I 
should  ever  meet  in  the  very  heart  of  an  adventure !  " 

From  the  hill's  crest  blazed  the  three  weapons  of 
Giacomo  and  his  companions.  The  bullets  fell  short  of 
the  launch. 

Instantly  was  heard  the  sharp  command  of  an  officer : 
"Fire!" 

Again  the  river-mists  were  streaked  with  crimson; 
spangled  splashes  of  blood-red  blurs  showed  against  the 
floating  curtain  of  white. 

[405] 


Something  Else 

Arnold  fell  to  his  knees,  gave  a  low  groan,  then 
lurched  forward  upon  his  face. 

"  Father ! "  cried  Irving,  kneeling  over  him. 
"  Father !  "  Why  had  he  not  called  him  so,  when  the 
other  was  conscious?  Arnold,  but  a  moment  before, 
had  been  so  full  of  life  —  there  had  seemed  before  him 
many  robust  years  promising  rich  and  careless  joys 
of  hearty  living.  Irving  had  only  waited  a  time  more 
fitting  for  the  revelation.  Now,  was  it  too  late?  He 
looked  frantically  about. 

Bianco  and  Pietro  were  running  toward  him  from 
the  lower  margin  of  the  slant.  In  Bianca's  hand  was  a 
dripping  knife. 

"  Help  me  carry  him,"  cried  Irving,  trying  to  bear  up 
the  limp  form. 

Bianca  stared  at  the  stained  knife,  as  if  wondering 
how  it  came  in  her  hand.  She  flung  it  into  the  river. 
"  I  helpa,"  she  muttered.  She  lifted  the  limbs  of  the 
prostrate  man.  Irving  held  his  body.  She  put  her 
ear  to  his  breast.  "  He  iss  not  mort,"  she  said,  dully. 

Giacomo  and  his  friends  fired  again.  From  a  sud- 
den commotion  in  the  launch,  it  appeared  that  the  volley 
had  not  been  without  effect. 

The  searchlight  quivered  like  a  throbbing  pulse 
upon  the  group  at  the  base  of  the  highest  peak.  There 
was  the  bleeding  form  of  Arnold,  there  were  Irving  and 
Bianca  stumbling  upward  with  their  insensible  burden, 
there  was  Pietro  coming  after,  and  steadying  them  by 
turns. 

But  a  diversion  happily  occurred.  Agostino's  ac- 
[406] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

complice  had  leaped  overboard,  and  the  glaring  light 
was  shifted  in  search  of  him.  He  was  seen  battling 
with  the  waves.  The  gasoline  launch  turned  aside  to 
capture  him,  and  it  was  due  to  this  loss  of  time  to  the 
police,  that  escape  became  a  possibility  to  Pietro's 
party. 

Even  so,  Irving  did  not  realize  how  safety  was  at- 
tained. The  next  day,  when  he  sought  to  bring  back 
the  various  incidents  in  their  order,  he  found  his  mind 
baffled  by  confused  fragments  of  memory.  His  con- 
suming desire  to  get  his  father,  dead  or  alive,  safely  into 
Pietro's  boat  —  that,  at  any  rate,  he  would  remember 
as  long  as  he  lived.  But  the  wild  scramble  down  the 
coal-heap,  the  difficult  passage  from  one  barge  to  the 
next  —  how  was  the  lifeless  form  thus  borne?  It 
seemed  that  in  leaping  from  one  deck  to  the  black 
uncertainty  of  tjie  other,  Arnold  must  have  been  lifted 
up  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  son's  thought! 

Again,  he  held  fast-engraved  upon  his  recollection, 
the  dark  figures  of  the  Italians  as  they  defiled  before 
him,  their  shoulders  humped  forward  to  avoid  pursu- 
ing bullets,  their  arms  swinging  as  if  hung  upon  wires, 
jerking  with  the  unevenness  of  their  footsteps.  And 
always,  he  and  Bianca  were  carrying  the  form  which 
momentarily  grew  heavier,  and  always,  when  he  stum- 
bled, the  quick  hand  of  Pietro  was  under  his  elbow. 
And  once,  when  the  searchlight  streamed  toward  them, 
it  revealed  nothing  in  all  the  murky  night  but  one 
blackened  face  from  which  dully  gleamed  a  yellow  tooth. 

Such  details  were  forever  fastened  upon  his  mind, 
[407] 


Something  Else 

while  larger  facts  were  lost.  The  red  cloth  that  cov- 
ered Bianca's  coarse  hair,  was  like  the  red  hand  she 
held  against  Arnold's  side.  Only  one  of  her  hands 
was  red,  the  hand  that  had  flung  the  knife  into  the 
river.  Irving  could  never  forget  that  hand.  But 
how  they  descended  from  the  foremost  barge  into 
Pietro's  boat, —  that  was  all  vague.  It  seemed  that,  at 
one  moment,  he  was  about  to  sink  under  the  leaden 
weight  of  Arnold;  and,  at  the  next,  all  were  seated  in 
the  boat  that  had  brought  them  from  Manhattan. 

Suddenly  he  found  that  he  was  bleeding  from  a  severe 
fall  on  the  coal;  suddenly  he  found  the  world  reeling 
in  a  mad  chaos  of  dizzy  spaces.  But  presently  all  was 
peaceful,  like  any  other  night  on  the  Bay,  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  He  sat  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
holding  his  father's  motionless  head  upon  his  knee. 
The  Italians  rowed  desperately.  The  cool  breeze  was 
in  his  face. 

Occasionally  Irving  was  aware  of  Bianca's  drawing 
a  tarpaulin  over  his  father's  form.  Scarcely  would 
she  do  so,  when  a  sudden  blinding  light  would  reveal  the 
nearness  of  a  vessel,  perhaps  a  great  ship,  and  this 
vessel  would  be  looking  down  upon  them.  There  was 
still  danger,  then,  it  appeared.  But  Irving  thought 
little  of  it;  and,  as  soon  as  the  light  had  moved  on, 
he  would  mechanically  throw  aside  the  tarpaulin,  wait- 
ing, but  with  little  hope,  for  some  movement  to  prove 
that  his  father  still  lived.  The  flow  of  blood  had  been 
checked,  but  the  wound  appeared  a  mortal  one.  Inex- 

[408] 


The  Battle  of  the  Coal  Barges 

perienced  as  he  was,  the  young  man  could  not  think  that 
the  other  would  survive;  but  he  hoped  for  at  least  a 
brief  period  of  rallying  forces,  that  might  enable  them 
to  speak  to  each  other  as  father  and  son. 


[409] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   FATHER 

AS  the  noises  grew  less  strident,  and  later,  as  a 
solemn  peace  came  up  from  the  sea,  there  was 
mingled,  with  Irving's  heaviness  of  heart,  a 
sense  of  passionate  relief.     It  was  not  likely  that  the 
patrol-boat  would  again  be  encountered;  danger  of  dis- 
covery was  surely  past. 

These  sturdy  oarsmen,  silent,  grim,  capable,  had 
brought  him,  with  the  insensible  form  of  his  father, 
out  of  the  shadow  of  disgrace.  To  them  he  owed  this 
body  in  his  arms,  to  them  he  owed  the  faint  sigh  from 
Arnold's  lips.  Criminals  they  were,  past  all  doubt, 
since  Agostino  had  not  risen  from  the  dust.  They 
might  never  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  these  murder- 
ers —  perhaps  they  would  not  feel  at  home  there ;  but, 
soiled  as  they  were  by  many  a  dark  deed,  they  had 
entered  the  kingdom  of  Irving's  heart. 

"  Pietro,"  said  Irving,  speaking  as  to  a  companion- 
in-arms,  "  have  you  any  whiskey  ?  " 

Whiskey  Pietro  had;  more  than  was  good  for  him, 
perhaps.  He  stopped  rowing  long  enough  to  unpocket 
his  flask.  Irving  held  it  to  Arnold's  lips. 

The  breathing  of  the  prone  form  grew  more  pro- 
nounced. 

[410] 


The  Father 

Irving  bent  over  the  cold  face,  seeking  to  restore 
consciousness  by  the  vehemence  of  speech :  "  Do  you 
know  me,  father?  Listen  —  do  you  know  me?  I  can't 
tell  you  what  my  name  is  —  I  have  none,  I  suppose. 
They  call  me  Irving  Payne.  You  knew  me  as  Irving 
Payne.  Do  you  remember?  Can  you  hear  me, 
father?" 

A  faint  whisper  answered,  uncertainly,  "  Some  one  is 
calling  me  '  father.' ' 

"  Yes,"  said  Irving,  valiantly,  "  I  am  calling  you 
father." 

After  a  brief  pause,  Arnold  whispered,  "  I  would 
hear  that  in  the  grave." 

Irving  lifted  the  heavy  head,  that  the  breeze  might 
help  to  revive  the  scattered  senses.  But  when  the 
wounded  man  again  spoke,  he  proved  that  he  compre- 
hended all,  and  was  passing  from  facts  to  causes. 
"  Who  told  you?  "  he  asked,  barely  audible. 

Irving  spoke  practically,  as  if  to  make  light  of  the 
other's  condition,  and  as  if  to  make  nothing  of  the 
consequences  to  himself  —  without  apparent  emotion, 
without  heroics.  "  Mrs.  Wyse  —  the  woman  who  took 
me  to  the  Paynes  to  be  adopted  —  when  I  was  an  infant. 
She  knew  all  about  you." 

"All  about  me?"  repeated  Arnold,  with  something 
like  his  old  manner.  "  Then  what  a  wonderful  woman, 
that  Mrs.  Wyse !  "  He  added,  "  But  you  were  never 
to  be  told,  you  were  never  to  know.  It 's  too  bad !  " 
Presently  Arnold  continued,  gathering  strength.  After 
brief  pauses  for  rallying  fresh  power,  he  would  go  on 

[411] 


Something  Else 

with  a  determined  forcibleness  that  trailed  off,  pathetic- 
ally, into  silent  lapses: 

"  Agostino  found  out,  and  it  made  him  rather  arbi- 
trary, at  times.  But  he  was  a  useful  friend  in  the  bit- 
ter cold,  when  I  had  not  a  penny  in  the  world.  Of 
course,  I  would  n't  help  him  in  his  thieving,  but  I  've 
stood  guard  more  than  once,  to  whistle  the  policeman's 
coming.  Man  is  very  weak,  my  boy.  I  tried  to  save 
Agostino's  life,  to-night ;  I  heard  he  was  in  danger ; 
came  too  late.  And  so  you  not  only  know  that  I  am 
your  father,  but  —  you  call  me  so !  I  've  often  won- 
dered what  you  would  say  —  how  you  'd  act  —  if  you 
could  know.  But  to  know  the  truth  does  n't  kill,  does 
it?  You  are  still  you,  I  am  still  I.  You  understand, 
I  could  n't  tell  you  before  to-night  —  before  this  mo- 
ment, because  —  Oh,  you  see !  I  'd  have  died,  to  have 
the  secret  buried  with  me. —  Dying,  now,  but  for  noth- 
ing, just  as  my  living  was  no  good  to  you. —  But  I'm 
glad  you  know. —  When  one  is  dying,  everything  seems 
changed.  One  cares  only  for  things  that  count. 
Somehow,  what  I  thought  most  important,  simply  seems 
nothing.  Only  God  matters.  I  thought  I  'd  lost  Him. 
But  he  's  been  waiting  for  me  all  this  time.  The  world  's 
slipping  from  under  me  —  all  is  space  —  but  I  'm  hold- 
ing to  Something  —  God  's  mighty  patient !  " 

Irving  asked  if  a  changed  position  would  bring  com- 
fort, but  the  other  listened  to  the  voice  rather  than  to 
the  meaning  of  the  words. 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  what  you've  a  right  to  know  — 
and  time  is  so  short.  But  was  n't  it  gay  on  the  barge, 

[413] 


The  Father 

until  that  fatal  bullet !  I  '11  tell  you  now :  you  are  my 
son,  but  not — " 

There  was  silence,  so  long  and  so  profound,  that  Ir- 
ving, in  spite  of  his  anxiety  to  hear  the  truth  about 
himself,  found  his  attention  caught  by  the  monotonous 
voice  of  Bianca,  as  she  muttered,  "  His  las'  words  wass, 
'  Come  confonde!  Donta  kill  me,  Bianca,  donta  kill 
me ! '  " 

"  Is  that  Bianca  talking?  "  inquired  Arnold,  eagerly. 
"  She 's  often  promised  to  bury  me  in  the  sand  on 
Plum  Island,  where  I  went  every  summer  of  my  last 
years.  We  '11  not  reach  it  too  soon.  I  feel  the  blood 
dripping  in  my  lungs.  It  smothers  me.  I  think  I  '11 
have  time  to  tell.  A  handkerchief !  —  Bianca !  " 

Irving  bathed,  with  a  dampened  handkerchief,  the 
face  which  the  fog  hid  from  his  straining  eyes. 

Bianca  was  roused  by  the  feeble  call.  "  Yaas,  I 
keepa  de  promise,"  she  assured  Arnold.  "  Die  easy. 
You  ver'  good  to  me,  w'en  I  wass  a  kid.  You  keepa 
me  from  bein'  beat,  I  guess  a  t'ousan'  time-a.  Pietro 
swear  dey  not  hurta  you,  an',  if  you  come-a  to  be 
kill',  dey  bury  you,  like-a  you  say." 

"But  where  are  we  going  now,  poor  Bianca?" 
asked  Arnold,  as  if  for  the  first  time  he  was  conscious 
of  the  splash  of  oars. 

"  To  Coney.  Only,  if  you  not  live-a,  we  go  on  to  de 
islan'." 

"To  bury  me  there?" 

"  Yaas,  like-a  you  say." 

"  Good  Bianca !  "     Arnold  turned  his   head  toward 


Something  Else 

Irving.  "  You  know  my  other  son,"  he  said,  in  a 
stronger  voice.  "  Think  of  me  at  his  age,  as  Claude 
is  now.  But  he  is  more  steadfast,  I  hope.  I  married 
at  about  his  age.  My  wife  was  —  you  know  her  as 
Mrs.  Vandever.  Our  tastes  were  utterly  unlike  —  but 
it  does  n't  seem  any  use  to  talk  about  all  that,  does 
it  ?  —  Can  you  hear  me,  my  boy  ?  I  am  heartily 
ashamed  of  my  weak  little  whispering  thread  of  a  voice. 
But  it  seems  all  I  have  left." 

The  oars  beat  an  accompaniment  to  the  words  of  the 
dying  man.  On  their  left  were  strung  the  lights  of  an 
invisible  land,  to  guide  them  through  the  thick  vapors. 
From  the  crouching  form  of  the  woman  in  the  stern 
came  the  dull  voice  — "  '  Donta  kill  me,  Bianca.'  Dey 
wass  his  las'  word." 

"  One  day,"  Arnold  resumed,  "  I  discovered  —  the 
other.  She  was  not  more  than  seventeen.  Bonjour 
was  her  name.  Her  mother  was  a  Frenchwoman;  her 
father  was  an  artist ;  you  know  him ;  I  found  you  in  his 
studio  the  night  I  went  there  to  accompany  Du  Pays. 
Yes,  Bon  jour's  father  was  —  Mr.  Burl." 

There  flashed  before  Irving's  memory  the  scene, 
not  of  the  night  to  which  Arnold  referred,  but  of  the 
day  of  the  mysterious  kiss.  The  bicycle-lamp  in  the 
window  was  meant  to  warn  Irving  away,  lest  he  discover 
Mr.  Burl's  strange  visitor;  and  that  strange  visitor, 
who  sometimes  slept  in  the  house  —  that  woman  who 
had  kissed  the  young  man  in  his  sleep  —  she  was  Mr. 
Burl's  daughter;  she  was  Arnold's  Bonjour!  Irving 

[414] 


The  Father 

felt  suffocated.  He  caught  at  the  collar  that  seemed 
about  to  strangle  him,  and  tore  it  away. 

Arnold  continued.  "  How  the  Burls  loved  that  girl ! 
6  Bon  jour,'  they  had  named  her.  To  look  into  her 
face,  was  to  hear  a  voice  say,  *  Good-morning.'  She 
was  —  but  my  strength  is  gone  —  what  shall  I  do  ?  — > 
Can't  you  do  something  for  me,  my  boy  ?  I  'd  like  to 
tell  you  what  she  was  like.  The  name  itself  must  tell 
you  all.  She  was  just  —  Bon  jour." 

Irving  bathed  the  other's  wrists  and  temples,  using 
the  handkerchief.  He  said  slowly,  "  Are  you  speaking 
of  —  of  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  mother.  She  was  so  young.  The 
greater  my  blame,  the  less  hers.  Neither  had  a  thought 
of  wrong-doing.  I  had  already  left  my  wife.  We  were 
living  apart.  I  had  brought  suit  for  divorce.  I  de- 
sired to  make  honorable  love  to  Bon  jour.  She  re- 
garded me  as  already  free.  But  Mrs.  Burl  was  not  only 
French;  she  was  Catholic  French.  They  discovered 
that  I  loved  Bon  jour.  To  tell  them  that  I  would  soon 
be  divorced  was  useless.  To  them,  divorce  was  merely 
a  word.  To  them,  I  was  bound  forever  to  my  wife. 
They  could  n't  understand  that  Bon j  our  cared  for  me 
—  well,  as  she  did  care.  They  would  n't  believe.  So 
they  were  to  sail  with  her  to  Europe,  to  bury  her  in 
some  convent  until  she  should  forget.  As  if  she  would 
have  forgotten!  The  night  before  they  were  to  sail, 
i —  we  went  away,  Bon  j  our  and  I.  Mind  you,  my  boy, 
I  excuse  nothing  —  I  only  explain.  If  you  can't  ex- 

[415] 


Something  Else 

cuse,  then  there  is  no  excuse.  That  is  not  all,  how- 
ever." 

A  tremor  shook  Irving's  cramped  frame.  The  hand 
that  had  been  reviving  his  father,  was  suddenly  with- 
drawn, automatically.  The  band  on  a  Coney  Island 
steamer,  bound  for  South  Ferry,  clashed  with  mocking 
mirth  against  the  rebellious  emotions  of  the  rigid 
listener. 

"  We  were  in  the  West,  a  year  and  more,"  said  Ar- 
nold, faintly.  "  Then  you  were  born,  and  all  was 
changed.  Up  to  that  time,  we  had  the  hope  that  a 
divorce  might  be  obtained.  When  you  came,  there  was 
the  ultimatum  from  New  York ;  no  divorce  for  me  — 
only  for  my  wife.  It  was  horrible  —  the  effect  upon 
Bonjour.  We  had  up,  to  that  time,  regarded  ourselves 
as  really  married,  you  understand.  But  after  that,  poor 
Bonjour  felt  only  shame.  It  ate  into  her  heart.  She 
shuddered  when  I  came  near.  She  brooded  until  it 
seemed  her  mind  was  deranged.  She  could  think  of 
nothing  but  that  —  that  I  was  not  her  husband.  One 
morning  she  went  away  with  you.  For  almost  twenty 
years  I  sought  for  some  clue  —  all  in  vain.  Pretty 
lonely  sort  of  life,  don't  you  think?  I've  tramped  in 
every  city  of  the  Union,  it  seems  to  me,  and  among 
country  places  by  thousands,  always  looking,  never 
finding." 

"  But  Mrs.  Wyse  told  me  that  you  came  to  her  house 
almost  as  soon  as  — " 

"  Mrs.  Wyse !  "  said  Arnold,  not  without  a  faint 
energy,  born  of  contempt.  "  She  thought  she  'd  make 

[416] 


The  Father 

money  out  of  you  by  holding  back  the  facts  —  but,  it 
seems,  you  had  none  at  that  time.  How  she  ever  found 
me,  I  don't  know.  She  's  a  genius,  doubtless.  At  any 
rate,  she  discovered  me  loafing  about  New  York  —  I  'd 
long  since  concluded  that  more  likely  than  not,  poor 
Bon  jour  was  dead.  That  devil  of  an  intriguer  —  Mi- 
lady Wyse  —  had  discovered  Bon j  our  —  knew  where  she 
was  —  would  tell  me  for  a  certain  sum.  I  sold  myself 
to  Agostino  to  get  that  sum,  and  —  I  found  her.  We 
met,  after  twenty  years.  Ah,  Monsieur  Irvilonne,  do 
not  blame  me  if  I  die  before  I  tell  all.  The  wish  is 
mine  to  tell.  The  wish,  the  —  the  prayer."  The  voice 
ceased. 

Irving  spoke  with  a  catch  in  his  voice :  "  Can't  you 
go  on  with  the  rest?  " 

The  whisper  came :  "  I  think  —  I  could  go  on,  if 
• — if  the  hand  that  rested  against  my  lips  and  brow  a 
little  while  ago  —  would  come  again." 

"  Father !  "  exclaimed  Irving,  with  a  broken  sob. 

"  Good  Irvilonne !  "  murmured  Arnold,  pressing  his 
lips  to  the  repentant  hand.  "  We  might  have  been  such 
good  comrades  —  I  can't  tell  you  about  the  meeting  — « 
time  presses.  So  I  wished  to  marry  Bonjour,  that  you 
might  know,  if  you  ever  heard  of  us,  that  we  were 
legally  man  and  wife.  It  was  a  bold  step,  to  sue  Mrs. 
Vandever  after  twenty  years,  she  whom  I  had  sued  as 
Mrs.  Arnold,  for  my  divorce.  But  she  made  no  de- 
fence. You  remember  how  I  took  you  to  the  court 
house?  Then  I  married  Bonjour  —  there  was  only  the 
ceremony;  we  were  never  to  live  together  —  the  old 
27  [  417  ] 


Something  Else 

threads  were  all  snarled,  or  broken  —  and  she  had  her 
atonement  to  complete.  She  was  so  patient  and  un- 
complaining. And  she  said  all  had  turned  out  so  much 
better  than  we  deserved,  for  you  had  grown  up  strong 
and  good  — " 

"  Is  she  in  need  ?  "  Irving  asked,  with  constraint. 

"  She  needs  nothing  except  you  —  the  one  thing  she 
cannot  have  —  the  only  thing  I  've  wanted.  Make  Mr. 
Burl  tell  you  her  story  —  or  better  yet,  ask  Dr.  Adams, 
who  knows  it  all.  And  think  well  of  Bonj  our.  Hear  a 
dying  man,  my  boy:  When  a  sin  is  committed,  it 
is  committed;  but  if  it  is  atoned  for,  then  it  is  atoned 
for.  What  took  place  twenty-one  years  ago  was  one 
thing.  But  it  was  only  one  thing.  Is  sin  eternal  ?  —  or 
God?  You  are  living  to-day  —  not  twenty-one  years 
ago.  So,  your  mother.  Forgive  her." 

"  But  oh,  father,"  Irving  groaned,  "  it  is  not  whether 
I  forgive  her — " 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  it  is  —  whether  you  forgive  her. 
Why,  my  boy,  God  forgave  her  years  and  years  ago ! 
Has  n't  she  prayed  for  forgiveness  for  twenty  years  ? 
Christ  forgave  his  enemies  before  they  had  offered  one 
prayer." 

Irving  said,  "  I  forgive  her." 

"  Ah ! "  whispered  Arnold,  with  infinite  content. 
"  My  sorrow  is  as  light  as  air,  dear  boy,  because  a  friend 
is  at  this  end  of  it,  and  God  at  the  other.  Good-bye." 

Irving's  ear  was  held  to  the  cold  lips.  He  no  longer 
felt  the  beating  of  Arnold's  heart.  He  thought  him 

[418] 


The  Father 

quite  gone,  when  there  came  a  lingering  whisper  in 
which  love  lent  an  accent  to  each  syllable :  "  Bon j  our 
—  Irvilonne." 

Irving  spoke  to  him  tenderly,  and,  somewhat  revived, 
Arnold  murmured,  "  They  did  n't  give  out  —  there  were 
still  seven." 

Irving  repeated  in  anxious  inquiry,  "  Still  seven?  " 
He  thought  perhaps  his  father  had  a  last  command  to 
give  him. 

Arnold  explained  by  the  one  word,  whimsically  pro- 
nounced —  "  Doom-iss." 

Seven  volumes  by  Dumas,  still  unread.  Truly  all 
life  had  not  been  sapped  of  its  sweetness  for  this 
wanderer ! 

According  to  his  wish,  he  was  buried  in  the  sands 
of  Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  Sheephead's  Bay.  It 
was  that  bit  of  waste  earth  cast  up,  in  recent  years,  by 
the  sea,  to  be  possessed  by  a  colony  of  disreputables 
who  had  drifted  no  one  knew  whence.  There  had  come 
Arnold,  for  a  season  every  year,  lounging  in  his  hut  of 
driftwood,  reading  his  favorite  books,  and  —  dreaming 
of  Bon  jour. 

Only  a  few  days  ago,  the  tramps  had  been  driven 
away,  their  saloons  had  been  demolished,  and  a  detach- 
ment of  soldiers  from  Fort  Hamilton  had  come  to  pos- 
sess the  land.  It  had  seemed  to  Arnold  that  the  island, 
formed  of  drifted  waste  from  the  far-away  beach,  should 
be  peopled  and  owned  by  men  who  were  themselves 
drifted  wrecks  from  a  far-away  social  continent.  And 

[419] 


Something  Else 

what  more  fitting  than  that  he,  to  whom  no  one  be- 
longed, should  be  buried  in  the  barren  wastes  of  No 
Man's  Land? 

Even  at  his  burial,  the  arm  of  the  law  must  be 
eluded;  even  those  who  dug  his  grave  with  their  stilet- 
tos, were  obliged  to  exercise  great  caution,  not  only  on 
their  own  account,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  dead  man. 
Not  far  from  the  margin  of  the  spit,  burned  a  great 
red  camp-fire,  with  edges  of  curling  white  smoke.  The 
light  revealed  phantom  shapes  rising  like  peaks  of 
snow  from  out  the  crawling  fog.  These  were  the  tents 
of  the  soldiers.  The  erect  figure  that  paced  back  and 
forth  between  the  fire  and  the  stealthy  grave,  was  that 
of  the  sentinel. 

At  last  Irving's  father,  wrapped  in  the  tarpaulin, 
was  laid  in  his  final  resting-place.  The  sand  was  care- 
fully smoothed,  then  scattered  with  shells  and  stones. 

As  Irving  lingered  at  the  spot,  his  heart  oppressed, 
his  mind  unable  to  fathom  the  future  or  to  weigh  the 
past,  Bianca  slipped  to  him.  "  Yo'  padre  ver'  good  to 
me,  him,"  she  said  softly. 

Irving's  sudden  tears  were  caused  not  so  much  by  his 
father's  desolate  fate,  as  by  the  sympathy  of  the  crea- 
ture who  had  thrown  aside  the  tyrannous  grip  of  re- 
morse, to  speak  a  kind  word  for  his  dead.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  felt  much  of  what  he  should  not  feel, 
little  of  what  he  should.  Life  had  become  for  him,  a 
series  of  perplexing  riddles ;  but  he  had  the  feeling  that 
behind  every  riddle  of  the  universe,  is  God. 

[  420  ] 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   MOTHER 

THE  next  morning  found  Irving  standing  before 
the  residence  off  Madison  Square.  He 
learned  that  Mr.  Burl  had  gone  back  to  his 
Weehawken  studio,  on  the  preceding  evening.  This 
information  was  received  from  Williams  with  distinct 
relief.  Without  troubling  himself  to  ascertain  the  cause 
of  the  artist's  departure,  the  young  man  was  encouraged 
by  the  prospect  of  hearing  from  Dr.  Adams  all  he 
wished  to  know,  before  meeting  his  mother's  father. 

Yes,  Dr.  Adams  was  at  home;  Williams  was  sure  of 
that,  since  breakfast  was  only  half  an  hour  ago.  The 
doctor  must  be  in  the  library.  Irving  ascended. 

When  he  passed  through  the  door,  some  one  at  the 
distant  mullioned  window  was  laughing.  Irving  stood, 
transfixed.  He  had  believed  Winifred  in  Italy;  yet  it 
was  Winifred  who  laughed,  seated  with  her  back  to- 
ward the  door,  and  an  open  book  upon  her  knee. 

A  great  deal  had  happened  since  Irving  had  last  seen 
her,  but  her  face  and  form  were  as  of  yesterday.  When 
she  suddenly  became  aware  of  his  presence,  the  look 
upon  her  face  was  but  a  deepened  expression  of  that 
last  turned  upon  him,  in  Mr.  Burl's  studio. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Irving  said,  awkwardly. 
[421] 


Something  Else 

"  Williams  told  me  I  should  find  your  grandfather 
here." 

"  Is  n't  it  something  to  find  me  ?  "  returned  Wini- 
fred, gayly.  She  let  the  book  slip  to  the  floor,  as  she 
rose  to  greet  him.  Her  hand  was  frankly  outstretched ; 
the  music  of  her  voice,  like  rippling  water,  seemed,  after 
her  lips  grew  mute,  to  purl  along  through  the  shaded 
glen  of  silence. 

She  had  disembarked  only  the  day  before,  and  was 
not  yet  used  to  the  joy  of  being  in  town.  She  was 
so  glad  to  be  here,  it  seemed  that  others  also  should 
reflect  her  light. 

"  It  is  a  great  surprise,"  said  Irving,  simply.  In  the 
counteraction  of  his  emotions,  he  seemed  neither  glad 
nor  sorry. 

"  But  tell  me,"  said  Winifred,  fastening  her  bright, 
sincere  eyes  upon  his  face,  "  why  you  have  not  taken 
my  hand." 

"  Because,"  he  slowly  answered,  "  we  are  —  strangers. 
You  do  not  know  me." 

Winifred  glanced  at  her  outstretched  hand,  as  if 
wondering  —  but  without  displeasure  —  to  find  it  so 
ill-used.  She  clasped  her  hands  before  her,  waiting. 
There  was  a  faint  flush  of  embarrassment,  a  slight 
quiver  of  the  slightly  shortened  under  lip,  but  from 
her  generous  height  and  well-developed  body,  as  well  as 
from  her  speaking  brown  eyes,  came  an  impress  of 
sturdy  independence,  of  perfect  health. 

It  was  from  no  deliberate  intention  that  Irving  had 
turned  away  his  head.  He  felt  a  passionate  desire  to 


The  Mother 

clasp  her  hand,  for  it  seemed  the  reaching  forth  of 
human  sympathy;  but  some  instinctive  prompting  held 
him  rigid. 

"  You  are  ill,"  said  Winifred,  as  he  did  not  speak. 
But  she  looked  beyond  his  care-marked  face,  deep  into 
the  hollow  eyes  that  stared  at  her  from  purple  shadows, 
and  saw  the  wound  in  his  heart.  Her  unerring  intui- 
tion leaped  beyond  the  meaning  of  her  own  words,  as 
she  cried,  "  I  do  know  you." 

"  No  one  can  know  me,"  said  Irving,  holding  his  head 
high,  and  retreating  toward  the  threshold,  "  who  does 
not  know  my  mother." 

Winifred's  eyes  burned  through  tears.  "  I  do  know 
your  mother,"  she  returned  tenderly.  "  I  do  know 
your  mother,  Irving.  And  here  is  my  hand."  Again 
her  hand  was  held  out  to  him,  this  time  from  half  the 
space  of  the  wide  room. 

Irving  hurried  forward,  and  grasped  her  hand  im- 
pulsively. Could  she  really  know  all?  Dr.  Adams 
must  have  told  her  the  story.  She  was  in  the  studio 
when  his  mother  kissed  him,  sleeping.  She  must  have 
known,  after  all,  about  that  stolen  kiss.  She  must 
have  known  that  Mr.  Burl's  mysterious  visitor  was  his 
mother!  Doubtless  in  his  overwrought  nervous  state, 
this  hand-clasp  was  a  sort  of  ceremonial  rite;  it  gave 
him  recognition  in  Winifred's  sweet,  pure  world. 

His  manner  was  more  contained,  when  he  spoke :  "  I 
was  sent  here  to  learn  about  —  her  —  from  Dr.  Adams. 
My  father  sent  me;  just  before  he  died, —  for  he  is 
dead;  he  told  me  that  Dr.  Adams  could  explain  about 

[423] 


Something  Else 

my  mother.  Since  my  father's  burial  —  yes,  I  was  at 
the  burial  —  I  have  thought  intently,  and  everything 
seems  opening  up  to  me.  Last  night  —  I  spent  last 
night  in  the  streets,  just  as  I  did  months  ago,  after  I 
became  convinced  that  I  was  not  what  I  ought  to  be. 
Do  you  remember?  I  don't  know  who  my  mother  is,  or 
where  I  can  find  her.  Do  you  know?  Will  you  help? 
Can  I  have  the  story  from  you?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything  I  know,"  said  Winifred, 
with  the  same  exquisite  gentleness  of  touch  upon  his 
wounded  spirit  that  he  thought  assumed  for  his  sake. 
"  And,  if  you  add  what  you  have  discovered,  we  '11 
have  the  whole  story.  Shall  we  tell  it  together?  May- 
be I  '11  seem  a  little  nearer  to  you,  in  that  way.  You 
are  feeling  very  lonely,  I  think."  She  paused  to  look 
at  him  thoughtfully,  from  the  depths  of  her  luminous 
eyes. 

"  Very  lonely !  "  exclaimed  Irving,  as  if  the  words 
were  a  great  sigh.  Her  statement  of  the  fact  seemed 
to  visualize  the  desolation  he  had  felt.  Had  felt  — 
for  now,  with  her  eyes  upon  him  — "  But  not  with  you," 
said  Irving,  suddenly,  as  a  timid  smile  stole  through 
the  cloud. 

"  Think  of  that  day  in  the  studio,"  said  Winifred, 
gently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Irving,  his  brightness  deepening,  "  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  you — " 

"  No,  no,  I  mean  the  day  you  were  asleep,  and  some 
one  kissed  you  —  your  mother.  Let  that  teach  you 


The  Mother 

at  the  beginning  of  the  story,  that  your  mother  loves 
you." 

Irving's  transitory  brightness  was  gone.  "  Loves 
me ! "  he  exclaimed,  not  without  bitterness.  But  he 
caught  himself.  Why  distress  Winifred?  His  desire 
was  to  learn  the  truth,  not  to  make  accusations  of  in- 
difference and  neglect. 

Moreover,  his  sudden  feeling  of  hot  protest  against 
his  mother,  had  been  succeeded  by  another  feeling.  He 
could  not  think  of  that  day  in  the  studio  without  re- 
membering Winifred,  as  she  stood  beside  the  blue-and- 
gold  vase.  His  mind  was  animated  by  a  recollection  of 
their  swift  interchange  of  confidences  on  that  eve  of  her 
departure  for  Italy,  and  the  intimate  drawing-together 
of  their,  souls.  He  had  never  fully  known  Winifred 
until  that  day  of  his  mother's  kiss.  Would  he  ever 
be  able  to  separate  them  in  thought? 

"  Where  shall  I  begin  ?  "  Winifred  inquired. 

"  I  know  this  much  of  the  beginning,"  said  Irving, 
slowly.  "  My  father  was  married  to  the  present  Mrs. 
Vandever.  But  he  became  acquainted  with  a  young 
girl,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Burl  —  and  so  —  Mr.  Burl 
is  my  grandfather." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quietly,  "  that 's  why  he 
hunted  you  up,  and  found  a  place  for  you  in  the  rail- 
road office." 

Irving  responded,  but  this  time  without  bitterness, 
"  It  seems  that  everybody  knows  about  me,  except  my- 
self. I  thought  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Burl  purely  ac- 


Something  Else 

cidental ;  I  thought  the  same  of  —  of  my  father.  And 
of  Mrs.  Wyse.  But  all  were  seeking  me,  it  seems." 

Winifred  returned  to  the  story :  "  Your  father  —  Mr. 
Arnold  —  had  left  his  wife,  at  that  time.  He  ex- 
pected soon  to  get  a  divorce.  He  was  interested  in  art, 
in  an  amateur  fashion,  and  that  took  him  to  Mr.  Burl's 
—  whom  I  claim  as  '  Uncle  Christopher,'  for  he  has 
been  my  grandfather's  friend  all  his  life.  That  is  how 
your  father  met  —  her." 

"  And,"  said  Irving,  "  although  she  knew  that  my 
father  was  married,  she  listened  to  him !  " 

Winifred  drooped  her  glorious  head.  "  But  she  was 
so  young,  Irving.  And  he  had  already  left  his  wife. 
And  her  mother,  being  a  Catholic,  did  n't  believe  in  di- 
vorces; while  she  —  while  she  only  —  loved." 

"  They  were  out  West  more  than  a  year,"  Irving 
took  up  the  story.  "  When  they  found  that  no  divorce 
was  to  be  had,  and  that  they  could  n't  be  married,  she 
slipped  away  from  him,  one  morning  —  with  me  — 
and  came  to  New  York,  to  throw  herself  upon  her 
father's  mercy." 

"  But  Uncle  Christopher's  wife  had  been  dead  only 
a  few  weeks,  when  she  came  to  his  door,"  said  Winifred. 
"  She  had  died  of  a  broken  heart.  Uncle  Christopher 
could  n't  forgive,  at  that  time.  He  regarded  his 
daughter  as  —  but  sorrow  had  hardened  him,  it  had 
made  him  like  stone.  He  was  like  stone  for  years.  In 
the  meantime,  your  mother  had  been  sheltered  by  a 
poor  working-woman  of  the  tenements.  But  you  were 
just  a  baby.  You  could  n't  be  kept  in  that  crowded 

[426] 


The  Mother 

room,  already  over-full.  And  you  couldn't  be  raised 
in  the  streets.  Your  mother  was  very  ill;  her  money 
was  soon  all  spent.  There  came  the  chance  to  place 
you  with  a  respectable  family.  Your  mother  thought 
that  the  interest  the  Paynes  took  in  you  was  provi- 
dential. So  it  was.  Years  passed  before  your  mother 
was  able  to  save  up  enough  to  support  you  and  herself. 
While  she  was  working  desperately,  you  were  being 
cared  for.  Long  before  she  could  have  supported  you, 
she  had  been  persuaded  that  it  was  best  for  you  never 
to  know  about  your  parents.  So  you  were  allowed  to 
think  them  dead.  The  Paynes  believed  them  dead 
also." 

66  Did  she  ever  see  me,  after  parting  from  me,  until 
the  day  in  the  studio  ?  " 

"  Irving,  she  was  always  near  you,  from  the  very 
first.  Wherever  the  Paynes  went,  she  followed,  with- 
out their  suspecting  her  identity.  At  first,  she  worked 
at  the  hardest  tasks,  for  she  had  never  been  taught  to 
do  anything.  But  she  contrived  to  live  and  to  see  you 
from  a  distance.  That  was  her  only  happiness  • —  some- 
times to  see  you." 

"  But  in  that  case,  surely  I  have  seen  her?  " 

"When  you  were  sent  to  school,"  Winifred  con- 
tinued, "  she  lodged  in  a  building  which  you  passed, 
on  your  way  to  and  from  school.  By  that  time,  she 
had  managed  to  save  a  little.  All  this  was  before  Uncle 
Christopher  knew  of  her  affairs.  After  refusing  to  see 
her  several  times,  he  did  not  hear  of  her  again,  until  age 
and  solitude  had  touched  his  heart.  When  she  brought 

[427] 


Something  Else 

herself  again  to  his  attention,  she  had  already  bought 
a  little  place  —  had  already  paid  the  first  payment ;  the 
property  was,  of  course,  near  that  of  the  Paynes ;  it 
consisted  of  a  cottage  and  a  greenhouse  — " 

Irving  cried  out,  "  Winifred !  It  is  our  '  Little 
Neighbor.'  " 

"  Yes,"  Winifred  answered,  looking  at  him,  through 
tears,  "  the  *  Little  Neighbor.'  Her  one  happiness  in 
life,  is  to  live  where  she  may  sometimes  see  you." 

Irving  repeated,  softly,  "  The  '  Little  Neighbor  ' !  " 
He  turned  aside  his  face. 

"  And,  oh !  how  she  longed  for  you  to  visit  the 
Paynes ! "  cried  Winifred,  impetuously,  her  hands 
clasped,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  tears.  "  So  she  could 
see  you  come  driving  up  to  their  door!  Irving!  She 
has  been  feeding,  for  twenty  years  and  more,  on  the 
crumbs  from  the  rich  love-table  of  others." 

"  I  wish  I  had  visited  home  oftener ! "  Irving  ex- 
claimed, incoherently.  "  And  that  is  why  Mr.  Burl  put 
the  lamp  in  the  window  during  her  visits  — " 

"  Yes,  you  were  never,  never  to  meet  her.  But  when 
she  saw  you  asleep,  although  I  warned  her  with  a 
gesture,  she  could  n't  help  —  she  — " 

"  And  when  she  gave  us  those  flowers,"  murmured 
Irving  — 

"Don't  you  understand,"  exclaimed  Winifred,  not 
trying  to  hide  her  eyes,  "  that  the  reason  you  went  back 
to  the  greenhouse  —  it  was  because  you  were  being 
drawn  by  the  mother-love !  " 

It  was  all  very  strange  to  Irving;  strange  and  sad, 
[438] 


The  Mother 

and  yet,  though  sad,  in  a  way,  infinitely  sweet,  this  new 
phase  of  soul-life,  into  which  he  had  been  borne.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  all  the  sorrow  that  had  been,  was 
not  too  much  to  have  purchased  the  preciousness  of 
Winifred's  tears.  He  tried  to  tell  her,  stammeringly, 
how  he  had  felt  about  his  mother,  as  he  walked  the 
city  streets  at  midnight;  but  the  rough  words  made 
terrible  tangles  of  the  gossamer  threads  of  his  emo- 
tions. Fortunately  she  who  heard  him,  listened  with 
gossamer  ears. 

"  Yes,  I  understand  you,"  she  said,  after  his  failure. 
"  I  used  to  think  those  very  thoughts.  But  does  not 
our  judgment  of  others  lighten,  as  our  experience  deep- 
ens?" 

He  tried,  again,  to  put  his  feeling  into  words :  "  I  'd 
always  thought  that  after  such  —  an  experience  —  as 
that, —  a  trampling  under  foot  of  the  laws  that  hold  so- 
ciety intact  —  well,  but  you  know ;  I  'd  thought  every- 
thing ended,  or  should  end.  It  made  a  wreck  of  poor 
father's  life,  and  yet  he  went  on  —  somehow.  And 
there  is  — the  'Little  Neighbor.'  What  shall  I  say! 
You  know  my  heart,  Winifred.  And  here  I  am.  Do 
you  know,  I  seem  to  be  just  what  I've  always  been? 
To  others  I  must  always  be  different,  now.  But  to  my- 
self,—  just  the  same!" 

"  And  to  me,"  said  Winifred,  steadfastly. 

"  Because  you  understand,"  Irving  returned.  "  But 
what  must  Mrs.  Vandever  think?  How  could  it  ever  be 
straightened  out  for  her  ?  Kindness  to  my  father  would 
mean  an  insult  to  her.  To  defend  my  mother  would  be 


Something  Else 

to  mock  —  Claude,  for  instance ;  Claude,  my  half- 
brother." 

"  Irving,"  she  interrupted,  with  persuasive  gentle- 
ness, "  it  is  n't  your  duty,  or  any  one's,  to  straighten 
it  out.  We  are  to  soothe,  as  best  we  may,  all  pitiful 
deformities,  whether  of  body,  or  soul.  We  meet  some 
natures,  every  day  that  are  drawn  like  paralytic  limbs ; 
we  mustn't  pull  them  out  straight, —  just  help  them 
over  the  crossings,  and  along  the  way ;  must  n't  scold 
them  for  being  weak  and  helpless ;  must  be  glad  if  we 
are  strong  and  able  to  bear." 

"  Yes,  Winifred,  but  —  you  see  —  but  it  is  my 
mother." 

"  Yes,  Irving,  and  your  strength !  " 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,"  cried  Irving  from  a 
full  heart,  "  for  if  there  's  any  good  in  me, —  if  I  ever 
attain  anything  worth  while,  much  of  it  I  '11  owe  to 
you!  It  is  because  of  you  that  I  don't  seem  to  mind 
so  deeply  as  I  feel  I  ought.  When  I  think  of  the  — 
'  Little  Neighbor  ' —  always  watching  over  me,  as  you 
have  described  —  always  keeping  herself  hidden  from 
the  world,  letting  every  one  think  her  dead  —  I  feel  as 
my  father  told  me,  when  he  was  dying:  What  took 
place  twenty-odd  years  ago,  can't  outweigh  what  has 
happened  since  —  it  is  almost  the  same  as  if  it  had  not 
been;  it  is  atoned  for,  it  is  finished.  Nothing  of  all 
the  history  matters  —  except  that  I  should  go  to  her, 
and  tell  her  — " 

There  was  a  breathless  pause.  Then  Winifred  said, 
huskily,  "  It  would  never  do  for  you  to  go  and  claim 

[430] 


I 


The  Mother 

her  as  your  mother,  without  preparation ;  she  's  very 
delicate;  the  shock  might  kill  her.  But  I  became  ac- 
quainted with  her  in  Uncle  Christopher's  studio;  she 
knows  that  I  understand.  Irving!  Let  me  go  with 
you !  "  She  looked  at  him,  as  in  entreaty,  through  her 
streaming  tears. 

"  Let  you  go?  Would  you?  Will  you?  Oh,  Wini- 
fred!" 

And,  in  a  short  time,  Irving  and  Winifred  were  be- 
ing driven  from  the  old-fashioned  house  off  Madison 
Square.  How  well  he  remembered  their  former  trip 
to  the  Jersey  shore !  Now,  as  they  rode  on  the  car,  and 
afterwards,  as  the  carriage  bore  them  through  country 
fields,  the  brightness  of  that  other  day  came  back,  but 
how  softened,  how  full  of  an  ever-strange  peace  1 

He  lingered  out  of  sight,  while  Winifred  performed 
her  mission.  Winifred  found  Mrs.  Hurt  in  the  green- 
house; Irving  waited  on  the  farther  side  of  the  cot- 
tage, a  little  uneasy  lest  mother  Payne  spy  him  from 
her  window,  and  intervene. 

Although  he  was  at  some  distance  from  the  green- 
house, he  heard  his  mother's  sudden  cry.  It  was  so 
strong  and  wild,  so  full  of  hope  and  terror  —  could  it 
have  issued  from  the  slender  frame  of  the  Little  Neigh- 
bor? He  waited,  burning  with  impatience.  Incredible 
as  it  must  have  seemed  to  him  even  a  day  ago,  he  felt 
an  eagerness  to  go  to  his  mother  far  greater  than  had 
been  his  dread  of  facing  her. 

At  last  Winifred  came  swiftly  from  around  the  house. 
Her  feet  were  more  eloquent  than  her  lips.  Tears 

[431] 


Something  Else 

streamed  down  her  cheeks.  She  tried  to  say,  "  Come !  " 
—  but  her  lips  moved  in  vain.  She  could  only  beckon ; 
she  could  only  speak  "  Come "  with  her  tremulous 
smile. 

But  Irving  needed  no  spoken  word.  He  ran  to  the 
greenhouse.  Winifred  stayed  behind. 

A  little  figure,  all  in  black,  was  huddled,  weeping, 
upon  the  rustic  bench  among  the  flowers.  When  she 
heard  Irving's  footsteps  upon  the  gravel,  she  hid  her 
face,  and  slipped  forward,  that  she  might  kneel  before 
him.  She  did,  indeed,  fall  upon  her  knees,  holding  her 
arm  across  her  face. 

But  Irving  lifted  her  up  in  his  strong  arms,  and  held 
her  against  his  breast,  thus  not  to  straighten,  but  to 
help  over  the  crossings  of  life. 

"I  have  come  to  you,  for  always,"  he  said,  trying 
to  still  her  sobs.  "  And  you  are  always  to  be  my  '  Lit- 
tle Neighbor  ' —  my  mother !  "  Then  he  remembered 
the  dying  words  of  his  father,  and  repeated  them.  "  So 
this  is  Bon  jour?  Mother!  To  look  into  your  face, 
is  to  hear  one  say,  *  Good-morning  ' !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

IRVING  AND   WINIFRED 

ALL  of  which  took  place  some  years  ago. 
It  would  be  possible  to  bring  events  down 
to  the  present  day,  which  is  a  sad  temptation ; 
in  that  case  one  might  display  his  powers  of  description 
upon   the   wedding  of  Jerry   Vandever   and  her   step- 
brother.    In  that  case,  too,  he  might  point  out  Mrs. 
Sadie  Wyse  slowly  making  her  way  along  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,  pointing  thus  an  excellent  moral  to  an  ad- 
venturous tale. 

But  to  enter  into  to-day's  affairs  would  be  to  draw 
aside  the  disguise  under  which  the  hero  has  been  pre- 
sented. One  could  not  speak  of  the  Irving  Payne  of  to- 
day as  disassociated  from  certain  gigantic  industrial 
enterprises;  even  to  hint  at  those  enterprises,  however 
guardedly,  must  lead  the  reader  to  the  knowledge  of  his 
real  name.  For  his  real  name  is  known  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba  * —  or,  we  should  say,  from  Maine  to  Cali- 
fornia —  while  his  early  history  has  never  been  made 
public:  he  has  stayed  out  of  politics. 

It  is  unfortunate  for  our  purposes  as  raconteur,  that 
one  may  not  mention  a  new  tunnel  under  the  river,  or  a 
new  bridge  over  it,  without  revealing  our  hero  as  every- 
body  knows   him   to-day.     See   what   it   is   to   have   a 
a8  433 


Something  Else 

famous  hero!  Therefore  it  is  from  no  lack  of  knowl- 
edge, but  from  a  sense  of  discretion,  that  the  brilliant 
wedding  of  Jerry  and  Claude  —  with  its  attendant  cir- 
cumstances of  prying  kodaks  and  gaping  crowds  —  is 
left  to  the  imagination.  If  the  reader  stood  in  that 
crowd,  away  from  the  velvet  carpet,  beyond  the  cordon 
of  policemen,  he  probably  saw  Irving,  shaking  the 
hands  of  the  bridal  pair,  at  the  carriage  door. 

Was  Jessie  in  that  uninvited  host  of  spectators? 
Does  she  still  entertain  sentimental  regrets  for  the 
handsome  "Duke  de  Vandever"?  Does  she  still  see 
him  standing  always  among  lights,  always  among 
flowers?  Fortunately  Wedging  is  doing  well  on  Wall 
Street.  He  is  now  his  own  broker.  All  that  figuring 
against  the  future  was  not  for  nothing.  That  is 
doubly  fortunate  for  Jessie,  if  she  still  dreams  of  her 
New  Year's  hero.  If  she  entertains  regrets  they  are 
sweet,  no  doubt.  One  can  ill  afford  a  broken  heart  on 
a  broken  credit. 

As  for  the  new  interest  that  has  come  into  Irving's 
life,  mysterious,  shy,  marvellously  sensitive,  and  shrink- 
ingly  elusive,  little  need  be  said.  His  mother's  nature 
was  morbidly  self-conscious,  it  was  imbued  with  a  sense 
of  the  need  of  sacrifice.  Few  men  could  have  come  into 
contact  with  such  a  spirit  without  either  deepening  its 
sense  of  guilt,  or  inflicting  equal  pain  by  seeming  to  be 
unresponsive,  or  unsympathetic.  That  Irving  was  able 
to  impart  peace,  and  derive  content,  in  this  association, 
was  doubtless  due  to  the  different  phases  of  soul-de- 

[43*] 


Irving  and  Winifred 

velopment  whereby  he  had  attained  to  the  perfect  sym- 
pathy of  full  understanding. 

The  Paynes  had  accepted  Irving's  mother  for  Ir- 
ving's sake,  but  there  was  almost  no  intercourse  be- 
tween the  women.  Mrs.  Payne  could  understand  her 
own  feelings  of  forgiveness,  but  not  the  feelings  of  the 
Little  Neighbor.  To  Mrs.  Payne,  the  little  woman  in 
black  was  perennially  the  girl  of  seventeen;  she  was  al- 
ways eloping  with  somebody  else's  husband.  Mrs. 
Payne  was  willing  to  admit  the  other's  repentance. 
But  how  had  she  ever  done  it?  That  was  the  mystery. 
A  young  girl  so  carefully  raised,  and  only  seventeen  — • 

"  She 's  paid  for  it,  many  times  over,"  the  captain 
sometimes  suggested  —  but  never  with  much  hope  of 
being  heeded.  "  Think  of  her  solitary  life,  over  yonder 
among  her  flowers  and  vegetables.  She  might  have 
stayed  with  her  father,  living  an  easy  and  quiet  life. 
But,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  son  occasionally,  she 
was  willing  to  hoe,  and  grub,  and  stay  all  by  herself." 

Mrs.  Payne  caught  at  the  first  words,  and,  as  for  the 
others,  merely  waited  until  they  had  ceased.  Then  she 
cried  — 

"  And  she  ought  to  have  paid  for  it,  many  times  over ! 
How  is  a  thing  like  that  ever  to  be  paid  for  ?  How  can 
you  live  long  enough  to  pay  for  it?  Stay  all  alone? 
She  ought  to  have  stayed  by  herself."  Mother  Payne 
lowered  her  voice  to  the  whispering  accent  of  intensity : 
"  And  she  ought  to  be  staying  by  herself  right  now!  " 

"  But  it  was  n't  in  her  mind  any  more  than  in  yours 
[435] 


Something  Else 

that  she  could  pay  for  it,"  Captain  Silas  retorted. 
"  It  was  her  intention  that  Irv  should  n't  ever  learn  the 
secret.  It  is  n't  her  fault  that  he  did.  She  expected 
to  go  down  into  her  grave  simply  as  our  *  Little  Neigh- 
bor.' Irving  would  very  probably  never  have  thought 
of  coming  to  see  her  buried.  Does  n't  that  seem  a  sort 
of  awfully  lonesome  thought?  I  believe  Providence 
wanted  to  give  her  a  little  happiness  before  she  died." 

"  Please,  Captain,  don't  lay  it  on  Providence. 
Providence  does  n't  make  such  mistakes.  Providence 
is  n't  a  man,  but  you  are,  or  you  would  n't  talk  so !  " 

Irving,  being  a  man,  shared  the  Captain's  opinion. 
The  past  —  but  if  there  had  not  been  that  past,  there 
would  now  be  no  Irving.  He  could  not  think  of  the 
past  as  dead,  since  he  lived.  So  it  was  not  a  problem 
of  slaying  the  past,  or  burying  it  forever,  but  of  turn- 
ing the  very  wrong-doing  of  the  past  into  a  sort  of 
blessing.  This  was  not  to  do  evil  that  good  might 
come,  but  to  take  the  evil,  after  it  was  done,  and  turn 
it  to  good.  Why  not?  From  the  blood  of  an  innocent 
Man  sprung  our  Gospel  of  Love.  These  thoughts  were 
not  vague  fantasies  to  Irving,  they  were  deep  convic- 
tions. Is  it  Heaven,  or  earth,  he  would  have  asked,  that 
keeps  the  sin  of  the  woman  strapped  to  her  back?  It  is 
man  who  drags  her  to  the  stoning,  while  the  finger  of 
God  eternally  writes. 

As  we  have  indicated,  nothing  may  be  said  of  Irving's 
part  in  the  development  of  Greater  New  York,  without 
betraying  his  identity.  We  must  content  ourselves  with 
a  word  touching  that  part  of  his  private  life  unknown 

[436] 


Irving  and  Winifred 

to  the  world  at  large,  unknown  even  to  his  partner,  J.  S. 
Vandever. 

In  the  first  place,  there  are  his  mother  and  grand- 
father, whose  home-life  in  obscure  Greenwich  Village  oc- 
cupies a  corner  of  his  life-scene,  charmingly  simple  and 
quiet.  On  his  excursions  to  the  Paynes,  whom  he  visits 
more  regularly,  he  finds  a  second  home,  no  less  con- 
genial because  distinct  from  the  first.  And  then,  the 
gentle  refinement  of  the  house  near  Madison  Square  with 
its  studio  of  growing  fame,  and  its  white-haired  physi- 
cian of  the  boyish  heart  — •  is  this  not  a  third  home  ?  It 
is  not  given  to  every  one,  to  have  three  homes. 

And  Winifred  Adams? 

Is  fame  sufficient  for  her?  Does  she  crave  nothing 
beyond  the  recognition  of  critics,  the  lavish  praise  of 
the  public,  and  the  consciousness  of  work  well  done? 
There  is  her  grandfather,  to  be  sure;  but  how  large  a 
place  in  a  maiden's  soul  may  a  grandfather  occupy? 
This  was  precisely  the  point  for  Irving  to  clear  up  — 
hence  his  presence,  one  December  afternoon,  in  Christo- 
pher Burl's  studio,  where  Winifred,  and  only  Winifred, 
was  discovered. 

They  met  without  restraint,  as  friends  who  see  each 
other  so  often  that  conventionality  wears  to  shreds; 
and  yet  with  frank  pleasure,  as  if  something  bright  and 
strong  were  showing  through  the  tatters  of  a  formality 
that  has  been  worn  too  long. 

She  had  just  heard  of  his  greatest  opportunity  — 
his  securing  the  complete  management  of  one  of  New 
York's  giant  enterprises.  To  ward  off  her  eulogies, 

[437] 


Something  Else 

he  desperately  bombarded  her  with  the  latest  com- 
ments —  laudatory,  but  not  judicious  —  concerning  one 
of  her  paintings. 

Laughingly,  she  burst  through  his  stream  of  lurid 
adjectives,  and  continued  her  enthusiastic  acclaim.  He 
was  so  famous,  he  was  so  great,  she  was  afraid  of  him. 
She  wondered  he  condescended  —  and  so  forth,  all  half 
in  earnest,  and  half  in  merry  teasing. 

Irving  fortified  himself  behind  —  "  I  'd  never  have 
been  worth  killing,  if  you  had  n't  taken  me  in  hand !  " 

"  What  an  expression !  I  take  you  in  hand,  Mr. 
Payne?  That  would  be  like  trying  to  pick  up  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge.  I  have  almost  ceased  to  think  of  you 
as  flesh  and  blood.  No ;  you  're  steel,  and  concrete, 
and  oil—" 

"Oil!  O  Winifred!  Don't!"  He  laughed  de- 
spairingly, and  insisted,  "  But  it  was  because  of  you, 
it  is  because  of  you,  Winifred.  You  remember  how  I 
had  no  aims  in  life — " 

Winifred  grew  more  serious.  She  was  rather  red, 
too,  perhaps  from  the  great  hearth-fire  —  or  from  his 
tone  of  voice.  "  I  can't  think  it 's  because  of  me,  and 
I  won't.  Because  —  because  if  I  thought  so  —  well ! 
It  might  make  me  think  less  of  you.  I  will  admit  that 
maybe  —  mind  you,  I  say  maybe,  Irving  —  maybe  I 
woke  you  up.  But  your  strength  comes  from  yourself, 
not  from  another.  You  were  just  asleep,  that  was  all." 

Irving  asked  soberly,  "  Would  it,  truly,  make  you 
think  less  of  me,  to  know  that  you  share  in  the  partner- 
ship of —  of  myself?" 

[438] 


Irving  and  Winifred 

It  was  a  most  unwonted  thing  for  Winifred's  gaze  to 
droop.  "  No  —  not  to  share"  she  admitted,  softly. 

"  Winifred  — "  He  came  to  her,  and  held  out  both 
hands.  "How  much  do  you  think  of  me?  I've  been 
waiting  these  years,  to  tell  you  of  my  love.  Shall  I 
wait  longer?  You  can  silence  me  with  a  word,  if  your 
art  is  more  to  you  than  I  am,  or  if  it  seems  too  short 
a  time  since  I  was  —  nothing.  You  can  silence  me 
until  I  have  given  greater  proofs.  But  if  you  will  hear 
me  now  —  if  you  can!  —  Winifred !  Time  flies,  with 
you  —  but  with  me,  it  seems  so  long,  this  waiting! 
Shall  I  wait  longer  before  I  tell  you  of  my  love?  " 

Winifred's  face  and  neck  seemed  to  have  caught  the 
deep  glow  of  the  fierce  hearth-coals.  She  looked  into 
his  eyes,  and  then  away,  and  then  into  his  eyes  again. 
Then  a  sudden  flashing  light  passed  over  her  face  of 
softly  moulded  loveliness.  She  said,  unsteadily  — 

"  Do  you  remember  the  day  of  —  of  the  mysterious 
kiss,  in  this  very  room?  " 

How  well  he  remembered  every  event  of  life  associated, 
in  any  way,  with  Winifred! 

"  Well !  "  said  Winifred,  still  more  uncertainly,  still 
more  brightly  flashing,  and  still  more  deeply  crimson, 
"  if  another  kiss  should  come  to  you,  would  it  find  you 
—  sleeping  ?  " 

"  Winifred !     Winifred !  "     He  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Because,"  Winifred  whispered,  "  it  would  be  so 
long,  you  know,  if  I  waited  for  you  to  build  another 
Subway ! " 

THE    END 


YB  73MA 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


